Rough

I am still thinking about that shooting, even though, I would never be able to bring it to life. I have the clear image in my head. I can see it. I can see the choreography of the shoot. Black and white. Maybe a bit dark, but soulful. And there is you, your small delicate frame populating an imaginary world, with your tutu skirt, naughty and vaporous, a tight top and black leather jacket. Knee high socks and Converse shoes. Sort of 80s I guess. Smokey eyes, thick mascara, and perfect lipstick contouring. There is something dangerous and endearing in this crazy minimalist mind built scenario, an old shabby building with light coming through dirty windows of hallways. An elevator with ragged and creaking doors. And a white, white and scratched wall to project the poses. And life. And stories, maybe yours or maybe somebody else’s. Your delicate hands and wrists up on the elevator doors like a brutal pinning of shadows and memories. Ghostly hot lips down the neck and sweet lies. I’m gonna call you and they never did. Sensuous line of knee, outsole sliding down on the elevators wall... dark eyes looking down your shoulder. The rough and needy hands, hoarse whispers that coat the cramped cubicle. I want you now and forever. But you know there is just unfocused now, but no forever. Those stories are now lying on a side on the stairs, with smudged mascara and bitten lips. Disheveled hair and cold fingers brushing down the cheeks. These lenses are an exorcising trigger making those memories to come unstrung with a part of heart, leaving behind a raw, vivid wound. And there are long weeps that whisper a chant of forgiveness and salvation, washing away the darkness. There are still deep breathings gasping the fresh air after the rain. Somehow, we both know there is a jump waiting. Back to the life that has been unintentionally ignored so far.