sexta-feira, 22 de abril de 2011

not my song

she lays down and moans. and moans, and kicks and splashes herself against sheets and cushions and herself again. she dances to silence like no one is watching or sneaking through the key hole, without having a clue how foolish all that is turning out to be. talking towards her throat, as if I was inside her to listen to it. i was not.

so there i was: standing beside her not totally believing what that slightly snobish girl turned into. by then, i was already just watching her lose it. and she lost it.

and i layed beside her trying not to make a noise to wake her up to her moaning, because that sounded like anything but a lullaby.