It’s jazz, incessant, senseless, ephemeral and distressing jazz, that which goes chasing him, slightly drunk, slightly unable to run, and he knows so, he knows those minute notes that restrain his leak, his heavy step through the city of grey, his brown eyes turned to black with the state of everything, everything melted from colour, disposed, unreachable. There is no red but the red of her lips, there is no golden but that of her hair, no truth white but that in her cigarette. He takes a sip of that green tea of his, no leaves turned grey, he lacks of colour only because he is aware. She? She is senseless, reckless; imbecile for some, her eyes are blue only due to her believing so, is it bliss the colour? Bliss the ignorance? None.
He steps in a cat like walk, subtle escape gone crass with the high pitched, low line notes of the jazz, but she sees the stray wolf walking by. She fancies him, always has, always will, at least she believes so, and here her belief is.
Her smoke is curtain only to his figure, slim; the clothes are inevitably black in every detail and every frame. She sighs, what a sight would he make to wear a white shirt and a tie. Her legs crossed, the silk of a red dress shows only the reminiscence of a smile of curves, body dropped forward in attack; she can be a cat. A cigarette rests on his lips and she dreams them of pale pink, soft, long a half moon of a smile, a mystery of a man. Thin lens rest upon his sight and she won’t sighs in desire of their absence, they have presence, though unable to decipher it so. He own a mole, but he doesn’t know, it’s hidden or located on the back of his neck, shown loosely by the edge of a too big black shirt with tattooed scent of dragons, oh but he has it upon his self, ethereal, expendable, but transcendental, marked, carved upon darkish tan of a skin. Her sighs now directed upon this mark, she decides aimlessly that it’s hers; that spot, that imperfection for some, that cliché for her, it’s hers and he don’t have to know. And of course: it. A wide grin spreads through her burned out, burning, incinerating lips, it’s it: the hat. A black custom made hat on top of that mess of black wavy hair; a hat says more than it ought to. You can only wear such if you are a discrete cynic, a low profile outlaw.
The man, him, he… Crosses the crowded street, in his eyes the automobiles are movement of chaos, though not progress as they speak of nowadays, he springs back at the roar of a Packard 52 rushing past his shadow. Again he draws closer, he always does, every Friday, every Wednesday, every Saturday and even now. He’ll walk so fast that he will become just a blur amongst the jazz by her side, never a sight granted to her, and yet she’ll stare.
He walks so fast that he seems like a blur amongst the jazz, passing through by her side, her focused sight, her lips tittering the unlit cigarette; her eyebrows frowned in this absent presence of his. Silver scars of ashes, bullet proof, bullet made lighter hits the concrete, unaware of its importance, unaware of its history. Click, Click and he stops, curls down and fingers grasp upon the tobacco tool. Say “Sir, sir got light?”
Cos we dream in black and white...
