Make our love blossom again

Sometimes I tell myself that love is like flowers, it's stunning at the beginning, and over time, this beauty gives way to decadence. Love can sometimes be misleading, and we no longer recognize it. It's like it never existed. I don't know if Paul noticed that his hands were no longer producing the same effect on me, that my body was no longer electrifying at the slightest second. Sometimes, I tell myself that we should take the time to sit down around a table together, even if it means putting a vase overflowing with fresh roses just like things were at the start of our flame, to encourage us, to tell us that everything can go back but do I want to?

I met Paul at a party. It's a pretty mundane place. I was holding a cocktail in my frail hands, and he shoved me. He still tells me today that it was all a happy accident. Happy because I changed his life. He, too, changed mine. If only my thoughts could enlighten him, put him on the right track. In 'Paul,' I hear a little the softness of the word 'shoulder,' and I find it as comforting as a hot bath when everything is gray and rainy outside and the bus is absent from traffic. Yes, Paul reassures. He is that soft plush that we can hardly take off. So why do I want to run away?

When I met him, I understood. I know it's an awful cliché, but my brain saw clearly. The freshness of this feeling intoxicated me, and I let myself be trapped. Again. Like yesterday. I blame myself like a woman on a diet who sneaked a bite of two croissants on the spot. They gave me extreme satisfaction at the time. I would even ask for a third if my pockets weren't suffering so much, but I have to be sensible myself.

Time is successful. Why not me? Time offers us a palette of colors and emotions, so why should I be inferior to it? I suddenly want to grab a cigarette and get out of the window to watch the passers-by while spreading my smoke because, in my mind, it's foggy. Several options are open to me, and I don't know the rules as I am lost in the game. Damn, I didn't ask to play!

I am stashed behind the kitchen curtains, and I watch the show, and I like what I see. A beautiful woman that beauty has not left by the side of the road. She is wearing a yellow dress. Excess of coquetry? Need to be seen and admired over and over again? It seems like it is working just fine. I see her. She reminds me of femininity, and chills run through down my spine without being able to refrain them. They go too fast for me, just like my thoughts. I find it hard to focus on anything other than this woman. I do not know her. She doesn't see me from the top of the third floor, and yet I spy on her like a teenager would observe a classmate from the corner of his eyes. Shyness gets the best of me. Desire as well. Two feelings come to battle together. I imagine her name is Isabelle.

Isabelle, it's soft, and it's light. If I observe the elegance of her step, I see the lightness in it, that of someone who has left their worries at the office. A wild thought comes to me. Could Isabelle be unfaithful to her man? A small, nothing but mini infidelity of nothing at all. It would be a nice one but quickly forgotten because her man is waiting for her at home. Would she feel guilty like the regrets that gnaw at me? But basically, if I analyze: why have remorse? What are they here for? It was me the day before. I don't think it was a dream. It was my hands that were playing with this new body. I could not have dreamed of a better moment. Or if so, call me an ambulance because dementia at 38 seems inconceivable to me! No, I'm not crazy.

There were your hands too. Your hands are used to stroking other bodies. I am perfectly inexperienced, and I think you noticed. I'm sorry and a little ashamed, but can we take the course of things and turn them to our advantage? I don't like to keep the other person feeling disappointed. No one deserves to experience disillusionment. I was not perfect. My actions were nothing like those of an architect who masters plans well. I felt lost, and, at the same time, I loved to get lost and scream in that pillow. It was as it was waiting for me. Besides, tell me, was it intentional on your part? I felt your will to dominate me, and I think it kept me going. I felt like a prisoner of my wild desires, and at the same time, I loved this prison. Do you think the term "golden prison" comes from there?

Isabelle and her beautiful yellow dress are gone. They walked around the park. She doesn't know that I watched her as she walked down the avenue. She was walking so slowly that I had time to smoke two cigarettes. Bad habit, I know, but for the moment, I have not found a way out. Watch Isabelle gave me courage, but all this is like devouring passion; it only lasts a while. There should be sentimental contracts of indefinite duration. Wouldn't that be nice? With prior notice, too, so the other party could prepare for separation.

The word "separation," there you go! I said it out loud, but Paul didn't hear me. He's in the living room sorting through files. A fussy couple harasses him to find a four-room apartment with a balcony for a low rent. And me? I am begging my mind to leave me alone and forget your existence like I did when your tongue seemed to wander over my pink butterfly.