a Robert Smith kind of love....



His memory makes me want to wear black eyeliner. To be the girl in the tartan mini skirt, black shirt, thigh high black socks and Doc Martins.
The girl who smoked Dunhill cigarettes in smoky bars and knew every word to The Cure, My Bloody Valentine, Legendary Pink Dots, Boys Next Door, The Velvet Underground, Nick Cave and Tori Amos. A girl I once was, some several hundred moons ago.

He had a wild mop of dark curls and liquid chocolate coloured eyes. He was tall and lean, though effortlessly muscular, his mouth seem set in a permanent pout, that could become the wickedest grin you have ever seen.

He fascinated me.
He wrote me letters, thick letters, pages upon pages of words, heart-breakingly beautiful, fragmented random thoughts and cryptic riddles. He was my personal Sphinx. And I worshipped at his alter.

But I couldn't touch him. Couldn't get close enough. He was smoke and mirrors, a Spectre sneaking in through key holes and disappearing with dawns early light.

The letters stopped, as suddenly as they began. I came to believe I had imagined him, fabricated a mystery to amuse myself, a figment of my over developed flair for the dramatic, an impossible lover worthy of a Chekovian tale.

"I've been staring so long at these pictures of you I can almost believe they are real...."

2009-11-24 8:29 a.m.