How long will it take before I see?
When will this hole in my heart be mended?
Who now is left alone... but me?
Solitude... Still with me is only you
Solitude... I can't stay away from you
I watched her dance the way an obsesser watches its prize. I watched her flaming hair spread out across her, thick and full against the ivory of her skin. Her blue eyes were dazzling, her lips glossed with rouge too red. Lipstick like that makes me think she's a whore, and then I sneer, having to remind myself that... yes; that's exactly what she is. Funny to think I'd forgotten for a moment and imagined my withered rock to be a Diamond, fit for any Queen's finger.
She slung her hips beneath the fabric of her skirt, pressed her flushed-from-heat palms against the bindings of the corset and rolled her head back. She let out one of her fake laughs and flashed a smile befitting of any Parisian dancer.
I took another drink of the absinthe and let it burn on my tongue. The smoke of my cigarette was stinging my eyes but I never tore my glance away, just another sheep in the audience. It was unnerving to realize that I'd almost (loved) grew up with this Courtesan, trading make-up, trading clothes, trading clients. Trading and trading until there was nothing left but ourselves, and then we traded that too.
That's all changed though, you see.
Because of him.
Because of the poet and his dazzling words (I could never be that articulate, that romantic). I see it sometimes in her eyes though, when she looks at him and smiles only slightly, when it's just a tilt of her lips upward and I know… that's not her smile. That's not anywhere close to the ones she gave me, and I get my moment of satisfaction. A moment worthy of my gloating. I don't think she deserves this Christian, this love-struck fool. She's no better then me, no better then the rest of Us. But she's always gotten things we haven't.
Truth be told, although that's hardly ever done, I don't think she's as happy as she pretends to be. She's drowning in herself, drowning in the way she tries so hard to convince everyone, even her own heart that what she feels when he's inside her is love.
That it is the fairy-tales and magic.
It's not the taste of cigarettes or the hurried movements in the twilight hours, rushing to feel some sort of satisfaction. It's not smeared gloss on our mouths and it's not lust at first sight.
I never promised her what he did. I never gave her lyrics and gave her songs. I never gave her a fucking thing, at least not anything worthy of the Diamond's affectionate gaze.
What's a heart and soul anyway? They don't rake in the money, they don't bring the clients, they don't make the scripts and fund for the theatres. They don't bring in a full house.
They went off together after her performance. They tried to be secretive, her leaving moments before he followed, both splitting up in different directions. I wonder what they're faces would be like should I happen to venture into that Elephant head now.
I wonder if she'd be gasping the way she did with me, or if he'd be whispering things into her ear that made her blush.
Highly doubtfully.
I've lost a prize I could never keep. I've paid my whore, non? In more then words and the meaningless feel of skin against skin.
It's better this way. It really is. Let them live out there precious dreams, let them find solace in each other. Let them drink up the universe just as Toulouse drinks up his absinthe. It's not as if I was expecting anything from her or expecting those girlish promises to be kept. It's not as if I was expecting to be anything but alone.
It's easy to believe the lies.
They don't hurt as much as the truth.