LOLITA

Vladmir wrote a book. But its done, it's written, it's sold, it's gaining more yesterdays by each day and by each tomorrow. The poetic first half of the book still rings in my ears, wishing you were writing one about me. Oh darling, it would be a marvellous piece. With us, nothing is done. Without us, nothing is complete. Ever collecting material.

Because I can see your eyes on me, watching every sign of my character, trying not to miss one of my gesticulations and my flight of hands. Lingering onto my every word, rethinking it. Asking me what I meant and why I said it. No matter how young I am, with your eyes on me, and your hands around me, you never failed to make me feel like a woman, your woman.

I can feel you thinking of me, because I think about you too. When I go quite, I talk to you, trying to make you see through my eyes. Show you all the colours that surround me. Then I smile and I calm down. We are dancing in the rain. It is almost real.

It is not living a lie, it is letting your projection play in front of my eyes as long as I can concentrate on your silhouette and try remember the smells. They are fading. Making me nostalgic. And if everyone leaves me,and even if you don't want me any more, I know I'll always exist in your head, be safe there. Are your hands itching? Can you feel me? Never stop.

Is it fair? I don't care.

I'll always represent sins to you.

I'll always be your Lolita.