the house was on fire. it started out with a couple of muted scratches on an acoustic guitar, and bursted out into the full industrial rock riffs. just like rum in many people’s glasses in every living room of New York. the air was bity and filled with the mingling lights of fire truck. a couple hours later. but nobody could see the flames starting out in the windows of the corner house, and gradually devouring it. as if it was made of gingerbread. just like everyone was devouring roast turkey, mashed potato with ham and beef, polishing it all with eggnog and traditional punch and mulled wine.
he was lying in the midst of the scattered piano sheets and pages of a torn up diary. pages were all covered with a handsome handwriting, sketches and hastily jotted notes: songs’ lyrics, favourite objectivist and fugitivist verses, extracts from books, in English, Ukrainian, French; sayings, new words and phrases in French and German; tick-boxes of to-do lists; and his own poems. scraps of poems, actually. all the same. he lay on the floor and was holding his breath. eyes shut tightly. tender eyebrows pending low on the steep of a forehead, just like gulls before the storm at sea. he just lay on the floor. motionlessly. thinking over, again and again, what happened that day.
he was wearing a velvet jacket that day. it matched with the colour of his eyes – emerald-green. she was dressed in all yellow. like a petal of the golden-daisies he brought to her. but she didn’t come. she was dressed to kill. and so she did. jumped from the bridge. just like that petal. gently. hit the rock bottom. the place u find urself at when ur letting go of the hope. when u don’t love urself, but seek for someone to do it for u. and so they did. and lost control. and both died. one – in a bay of her tears, under the golden gate bridge. the other – in the fire of his hatred and despair.
…since i met u
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