Shot of snow
Research and freedom of expression
Iris, 1988
Little by little my fingers were rushing down her half-naked back, I appreciated how she shuddered at the feeling of my other hand on her waist.
The blue neon lights described his silhouette in the crowd, the music was slow enough to mark the first step, his stroboscopic eyes induced me into an ethylic coma difficult to return.
She was older, forbidden, but that spring night certain drops of sweat on her chest plunged me into the endless summer of my worn-out youth. The night hovered over the crowd, in a shot of light his smile depicted the frenzy of that night. His skin, my pentagram, his voice howled on the rooftops waiting for the heat of the blood moon.
In his bed I learned the taste of a thousand and one sweet and sour awakenings under a leaden sky, the smell of a forgotten coffee spilled on the table, the sound of every cigarette that consumed him inside. She would lie on the frame of the window, photograph it and she would cover up not noticing with that rough expression on her eyebrows.
That apartment in that forgotten neighborhood in the suburbs, it was young, we couldn't care less, the tablecloth in his kitchen was a witness.
Stories in papyrus of an era that should not have consumed my youth, but she took it from me, I knew that nothing was forever, that nothing made sense. He let the shower water run and overflow through that soil worn out by the passage of time.
Thus my years flowed in that city of the neon fireflies, where I immersed myself in the sweetest of deaths, howling melodies at dusk in those nights soaked in alcohol and cheap fragrance.
My fingers on his skin, like a needle on vinyl that reproduces an unstable melody painted on those industrial sunsets inside his old car. Songs of burned youthful songs, tears of light over an uncertain future that spilled over her plaster sofa, ashes lost among the cream-colored sheets, her underwear on the wooden floor.
I still remember those photographs on the wall in black and white, some other snapshots with that characteristic discolored one scattered on the bed, whiskey spots that described perfect semicircles on the glass table.
She, eternally her. Above the frame of the window frowning frowned he examined the horizon while his restless lips were bitten by his unstable personality, by the eagerness to come out of that present uncertain and gnawed at by a thousand and one indecisions executed.
Iris, sunset. He took me to see those mountain roads in that rusty car, we flowed at the speed of light through magical streets, traffic lights and neon fireflies. We, who conceived the wild madness of that unforgettable city, who savored the rain on our naked bodies on the hood of their 1979 Golf, who stole the light from the sun making the eternal days between the sheets of their bed.
One hundred years later I return to this small city that one day was the place where I learned the eternal swing of this unpleasant life, which sometimes gives us eternal dreams about the sky of our memory. Everything is configured as a memory that is not forgotten, as a photograph in the same place catching dust forever, as a moment that time holds in vilo protecting it like a father to a son.
One hundred years of traveling to other corners of my interior that keep reminding me that you are still in that window smoking and listening to the dirty industrial horizon, consumed by the seagulls, which was appreciated from your apartment.
You, Iris, you took my youth from me. Just for a moment, you gave me the sweetest of deaths under your sheets.
I can still feel the music of that joint over our heads, those lights promised more than a lifetime could give, but we were young, we didn't care.