Lúst

I stood outside the open door too big to gush two stretcher beds simultaneously in. I saw faces I do not know wearing monochromes of black and white. The wake was filled with people blabbering things I did not make effort to understand. 

As I walk across the red velvet carpet, I remember the first time I've met you. 2011, past two in the morning when I've read your work in a gallery. Your words pierced me like an arrow which my flesh melted and absorbed by my veins. I felt love in that moment but I never bothered whether it was you or your work I fell for. 

Since then, I updated myself with your works, newly opened galleries and even recent published literary piece. Your words haunt me before I sleep as I struggle to live each day knowing that someone like you is out there whose heart beats out letters formed to induced a cocaine-like trigger in me. That when I thought I understand the hidden meanings and sublimations in every metaphors and irony you spit out, I am carried on a different place and find myself still not knowing anything about you.

I let you be, kept seducing me and letting me make love with your work like consecutive one-night stands. My fuck bud when I needed arousal and escape. The obsession was so strong that it brought me to that moment when I first had a contact with you. You reciprocated every admiration and you made me feel that what I have given would be willingly be returned.

But just like one-night stands, it stopped. 

For I see now the person behind every literary piece lying in front of me, with hands wringed together as if they never made no good; with brain already dead where the ideas once flowed out to a piece of white canvass; and with eyes now closed behind the glass coffin.

"Are you a friend of my love?" Someone behind me asked. 

"No." I replied.

Your love doesn't even know me at all.

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