Stop & Stare

The view can not be more like my present day. Early in the morning or late in the evening and even in this hour the outside still have the same grey dark oppressive colour and the same feeling. Tall buildings with noisy faces limit my sight leaving only the sky, high, above me. It is late or early and I don’t want sleep hoping the clouds break their momentous parade, I stop and stare a pale moon brave enough to sprinkle the obscurity with a frivolous and innocent beam of reflect light. The sun will follow. The world outside prepare to open for everyone struggle.

Naked I stand to watch a sort of life which I was not ready give me another day to live. A sip of black sweet coffee from the right, a puff of… from the left. Nicotine and coffee is not a healthy breakfast. Every tic tags along a toc: every toc track by a sip and every sip is chase by a puff. The day rolls inside itself to reach a very distant end. I, too, wrap my thoughts in clouds of acrylic smoke and once more I stop and stare in my dreams. The clock start sing and I open my eyes.

I had just turned eighteen. My adulthood was certificate by a pink drive licence with an ugly picture. I still wear those glasses. Locate on the corner of someone square the bright neon of that bar were where I meat my first addiction.

The ring of a door bell and the minutes wait with unease desire, the eternal cigarette twitching between the fingers was the only cohort able to share a possible hard-on. Down the ramp of stiff stairs which will become stiffer soon the glasses start to fill; up to a smart gay bartender and his doubles.

Sat in couch of fake leather, sat around green table were expensive cards were shuffle clockwise; sat in boot on the end of a U shaped narrow room darker where more bravery and demands are pleaded other me had started to stop and stare. Few bucks on the wooden table and few double drinks helped the conversation. Her tongue was in my right ear and my right hands on her white tights when we closed the deal or a pre-nuptial one hour agreement as she love to say.
I was just eighteen and I had a small car. I stopped and I had to stare to her breast and it was like a dream. She had to blow me away on our first date to teach me how to use my lips.
It is bright outside and my black sweet coffee it is cold and it stop to puff but not rolling. Two hours over this window to satisfy what was left after the dream. No names, no feelings I carry with me just the sign of an illegal but congregational addiction. Sex is a drugs and I need to score so let `s meet with the dealers.
Let’s go to the East

Buses are the best way to go in places. Their spider web maps of lines spread around to crisp and to cross the outside of my window. Destinations come together and for an instant everyone has a direction.
I had to stop and stare the yellow board of numbers without real timetable with the small fare to pay. A fiver buy you dream.

The time I took to walk up to my battlefield with its modern arrivals and departures was kill by a long chat with myself, a sort of pray, and with morning travel companion. Smoking dope in the warm morning sun nurse the bust of optimism which it is need, it isn’t easy. Listen the small inner voice and on the same time be aware of the red lights. Shoulders on the wall once more I stop and stare to my bus stop.

We bumped to each other on her way from Osaka I on my way to there between the blue and the green lines. My hands still holding her lipstick; her coffee, black and sweet dry up among the daily cricket results of the Monday paper. A sarcastic unsafe traffic jam in front of us so untimely to be responsible for her sorry smile and she sat down. She had to talk all over for more that I listen.
Soon we were one.

That evening we set up meeting at our bus stop. My right hand holds her left hand. My right fingers went to annoy her small fingers when I had to stop and stare her almond eyes. I twist her arm around her back; she whispered some melody to air. Her left arm pushed her hand up to my shirt. Her fingers play with every single button of my blouse down to my belt up to my neck. Her long adorned nails toyed with my goatee beard when I pulled her closer of any heartbeat to me.

She shakes away her shoulder-long hair and down it goes. She caresses my shaved head and my fresh shaved cheeks. She had to stop and stare in my eyes, Kashmir blue, her nails stabbed my spine.
My fault but I had to kiss her and what grow to be mine them it was to be converted into our now: black coffee, joint and bras. I listen, I talk but most the time I dream to make love as it was.
The N176bus on the way back from east stop in front of where it is possible for me to have the last taste of my journey. A real flavour which does not leave emptiness and void but it fill with smells and sensations; spicy, sour and dirty as suppose to be or supposedly it was.

Later that evening when the moon start to lay her encrusted face over the horizon I stop and stare outside my window and her save world behind. My Chinese take away cool untouched on the coffee table. An early someone fly away scare to be caught. He is afraid of the historic tic and toc of Big Ben the reminder.
I stand naked with a black sweet coffee in my right hand stop staring the smoke of burning ashes dreaming of spaceships.