Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Flickering. Slurrping. Through the mobile camera.
They think of love.
Hands, legs, whispers, last spray of his favorite perfume. It gazes into her eyes through tiny beeps.
She becomes his ocean: Hiding all the stories, waiting to be discovered.
No. Maybe she feels like Titanic : humming in that deep deep trench. Someone needs to give her a mic.
She is done with it all
She wants to speak now.
Through the cameras, on the bed, through the Internet, in real, in fake. All men sound the same.
All the promises have calcium deficiency. Brittle bones, like her.
They will break on her shoulders soon.
Then what is that keeps her awake, waiting for his phone call at three in the morning?