A dull pencil is greater than the sharpest memory. - an English proverb
I was in the station last night.
It was cold and that large clock on the wall pirouetted on its axis, dancing the time away. Dead leaves skittered across the floor and I was alone. Not lonely. Just alone.
I lay on the station floor, drinking cheap wine, gazing at the night sky through the holes in the roof. Mateus. Do you remember it? It’s the one we used to drink when we were younger, and it made us feel rich.
I remember dancing there when we were drunk. You were fuzzy and I was happy. And our feet whispered over the tiles, floating on the warm buzz of Ella Fitzgerald’s voice. The thrill of those nights, Michael… every moment was electric.
And as I looked up at the stars, I remember you once told me the sky was full of exploding suns. Eternity never looked so inviting.
I remember the first time you told me you loved me. The breeze of the summer night stroked your hair lazily and the star-jasmine glowed in the moonlight. I remember I could see the words dancing on your lips like tiny flames, and the sea of city lights blazed in the distance.
“I love you…”
The sound of your voice felt like sparks on my skin and made me shiver with delight.
I remember every scene and I cherish every moment we spent together, but without you nothing seems real any longer. The game’s just not fun any more. There’s nothing here for me now.
Sometimes, on warm summer nights like these, I think I see you in the shadows, waiting. Dance with me one more time, Michael. And then take me home.