Male third eye

He always leaves in the middle of the party, like Cinderella. Because the carriages of the trains that bring him home stop at midnight, and restart only at dawn. A quarter of an hour before the last train he leaves; who knows how much life we lost in those fifteen minutes before the clock struck. They are gaps that I filled with my imagination once I was alone in the room. As the lyrics of every love song spoke to me about him, I still moved giddy from the party night. Whatever clothes I wore were on the floor, while in my white socks and my black silk culottes, wearing only a t-shirt from when I was a child, I freed myself in movements that I didn't presume to make in front of the others. I sipped glasses of water still drunk on him, dreaming that he accompanied me, in the privacy of my room. And in the spontaneity of the dreamlike dimension, I allowed its fantastic essence to explore my body through the reality of my touch. Most men are attracted to women who have been loved by many before them. Every mole on my skin is a man's piercing gaze. He was attracted to me because I had never really been loved before. I stayed the way he wanted me because it was all a projection, an invisible ecstasy. The effect that the idea of him created in me remained a private moment. However loud a woman's sigh may be, the world remains indifferent to it.