...I knew that my place has been violated. Nothing was changed and I knew that his skills in hiding the evidence could trick even the most attentive eye. I was beginning to think that not even the room realized that it has been violated. But how do you call rape with consent? He refused to resign to everybody's wish for him to be out of my dreams. He didn't even conceive that I'd look to see if he has tresspassed again. They say that tresspassers get shot in the head. Then if he died, where was his ghost?
I stopped, 'cause I was sure that he was somewhere, contemplating my desire. When I put him behind, he came somehow. I never put him behind, it was more like a facade. He was somewhere, contemplating. Somewhere in my head or above the clouds or in the leaves. He is bohemian after all. :)
In a smile of pride, I have found myself somewhere in the room, somewhere in the room...and I was saying, that it was in a smile of pride. I tell myself that it was pride when in fact it was awe. Because he's never been here. NEVER.
Still, I swear I could feel his scent of Old Spice and sawdust...oh, such an addiction.
And they say that addictions could cause hallucinations, right?