A story I was told by a distant and unfamiliar voice. When my Satine and Christian muses leave, someone else comes along. so take that Christian.
The Moulin Rouge and anything to do with it isn't mine and the song belongs to U2.
*~*You say you want diamonds on a ring of gold, you say you want your story to remain untold. But all the promises we make from the cradle to the grave, when all I want is you.
I could never offer her much, hardly anything really. But I thought that the only thing I could offer her was the greatest thing on earth anyway. All I could offer her was love. All I wanted was her.
She would parade about the dance floor every night, demanding diamonds of the highest value in return for a night of her affections. False affections, that is. Hungry men would trail in a great crowd behind like a rabble of hypnotised suitors enchanted by the evil queen.
I was never one of them. I would sit off to the side and watch in the shadows the floor lights cast upon me. I was just as enchanted by her as any other man, but my feelings towards her extended much farther. I was in love with her, and always would be.
I always used to dream to myself, what it would be like if I was one of those men who was, I suppose you could say, lucky enough to spend the night in her company. It makes me laugh, every time I dare to dream about it because I know just what would happen; she would shower me with promises and whisper things in my ear she knows any man would like to hear.
You say, you'll give me, a highway with no one on it, your treasure just to look upon it and all the riches in the night. You say, you'll give me, eye in a moon of blindness, a river in a time of dryness, a harbour in the tempest. But all the promises we make, from the cradle to the grave, all I want is you.
I don't dream those dreams anymore, for fear I would've dwelt on my dreams too much and forgotten to live. I still think of them sometimes though and smile sadly at the picture of her face in my mind. Those eyes of hers, bluer than sapphires, staring back at me, the thoughts behind them always a mystery.
I've heard stories of her, from the gents that fill the bars in the evenings before venturing to the notorious windmill. They smoke their big cigars and down numerous drinks I serve out to them from the bar. They never watch their words when I attend their tables, why would they? I'm only a waiter in a shabby shirt and waistcoat, nothing to bother about.
I mostly ignore the gent's stories - that mostly consist of them boasting about their encounters with her - because they don't talk about the real her. Only the one inside the costumes, covered in a mask of makeup. When I look at her, I see behind all that, to the woman behind the diamonds and all I want is her.
Instead of dreaming I wonder what she's really like. Is there really a woman behind the diamonds like I see? Or is that just part of my make believe? She could be a trapped angel with clipped wings behind the steel bars of sin, or she could be just a girl looking for a boy to love her. I am that boy.
You say, you want your love to work out right, to last with me through the night and you say, you want diamonds on a ring of gold, your story to remain untold, your love not to grow cold. But all the promises we break, from the cradle to the grave when all, I want is you.
It turns out, she fell in love one day, with a poet. The girl I saw behind the diamonds and glitter was real all along. Not a lustful illusion. I saw the poet only once and I suppose I'm glad that that was all, I hated to see the man who stole something I loved.
I went to the play she appeared in, the one she died at the end of. Once again I was off to the side, seated up the back in the darkest row, not even caressed by the light shining from the stage. That was the first time I saw the poet she loved; he was a handsome enough boy for her I guess.
It was surprising how much it actually hurt to see her with him up on that stage. I knew and expected it would hurt, but not as much as it did. There was a claw, one sharp, jagged claw, starting at the top and slowly tearing its way down my heart. A pain with no end.
I should've been happy for her. I should be happy that the one I love is happy, shouldn't I? But I wasn't and I wasn't sad or angry either. I was engulfed, engulfed by one single thought that throbbed in my mind as I watched her and her poet on the stage.
You. All I want is you. All I want is you. All I want is you.