The room is empty and white. The bed, a messed-up mattress on the floor. A few white hair, a smile crooked under that weight life spends 20 years stacking and you try to tuck away into some hidden pocket. Books, books everywhere; no toilet paper. I imagine the terrace behind the huge windows and feel slightly sick.
The room is empty and dusty. In the darkness, I can feel your dangerous eyes and thick lips everywhere. They read french poetry in this same bed before the candle burnt out and are now devouring my skin; yours, still untouched by manhood, melts away from my fingertips. I love la vie boheme.