Tonight I couldn’t find her, she had vanished underneath layers of makeup. Her eyes were framed by black feathers. And her lips were melted passion of wild berries.
Only when I accidentally touched her did I notice her presence, I found her because her skin never changes, it cannot lie. Her soft skin wrapping her soul, a soul speaking the truth her eyes hide, saying the words her lips confine.
I found her and held her hand. I could not see her, but I could feel what her soul was shouting. And it gave me goosebumps. Because I had never touched a more sincere skin than hers.
“Love me”. I could feel those words through every single pore. In vain I tried to find her eyes, they were unfathomable. It was hopeless to reach her lips, they would keep vanishing in a storm of deep red.
“How do you want me to love you, if I cannot find you?”, I eventually asked her. And then, like a ghost, she released my hand and I lost contact with her skin. I lost her, she was gone. And I knew I would never find her again, because she didn’t want to be found, because she’d rather be a ghost lingering on men’s skins and thoughts, than a real person.
Four seasons and 100 snapshot of Malta, the beautiful and picturesque Mediterranean island. More photos on my Instagram (@noerive).
Sunny limestone rock,
Glowing at sunset.
No trees, no forests,
No mountains, no rivers,
Just buildings and sea.
Blue, teal and turquoise,
Painful rocky beaches.
Quaint old buildings,
Narrow bumpy pavements,
Rubbish on the street.
It was just an evening romance.
As ephemeral as the first raindrops that moisten his face.
Or the fleeting kiss of the waves on the rocks.
It lasted what it takes for an autumn leaf to touch the ground.
The silence between the breaths of two lovers.
Guilty tears running down her face.
Long before the sun dropped its golden veil over the sea
And the lighthouse fell asleep,
They were gone.
Because it was just an evening romance.
They were standing on the edge of the cliff of the small island while they gazed at the sun disappearing in the horizon. He held her hand gently and she smiled, eyes fixed on the big orange orb.
When the last chunk of sun was swallowed by the sea, she took a step forward and whispering something he could barely hear, released his hand. In a blink of an eye she was gone. She had jumped. He leaned over the cliff looking for answers, but he couldn’t see her, there was no her falling. Instead, a thousand birds of all colours emerged from the bottom of the cliff, flying towards the end of the sea.
Now she is the wind that those birds leave behind. Now she is free. She can sing through the tiny holes of the cliffs. She can dance with the leaves of the trees.
She can travel with the rays of the sun to warm him up in the cold winter. She can be the morning breeze caressing his skin. The flutter of eyelashes laying next to him. The breath of an I love you she never dared to say.
Reconozcámoslo, EE. UU. es un país lleno de rarezas, tanto política, religiosa como socialmente hablando. Y esta recopilación de instantáneas tomadas en mi último viaje a las Américas es prueba de ello. Pasen y vean.
You always find
Your way out nicely.
You will eventually meet
Your water grave.
Painter and artist,
You conscientiously leave
Your smeary footprint.
Colossal or wee,
What a wonderful pleasure is
To set you free.
Once you’re gone
I will never miss you.
11 ilustraciones de diferente temática y técnica. Expresión artística para matar el tiempo, sin pretensiones.