A mystery is what it becomes for me, day by day, from class to class. This feeling of belonging, without ever being able to hold on. To be the object of a sinful, hidden, secret, mysterious desire. Here we are again, in this mystery, a nothingness for me, what is it for you?
The smoke is not caught it is seen, it feels, it if misses in each part of your body, you do not expect it, you feel it only once it is you. That you are her. Unjust fate. Or deep will to lose control. What is a word when it fills a temptation in spite of itself? Is it a sign, an omen or a fault? Children make mistakes, adolescence seems to put an end to this fragility, but this lure conceals as much as it builds, the fault of an adult. Thus is born, the insatiable and indomitable desire of the young and innocent pink. These petals bloom, its thorns rise, its perfume calls, it metamorphoses. It becomes lust, lust, desire. She asks. She attracts him. She wants him.
Each bud is meticulously carved to please it. The flower knows exactly what it needs to do for it to notice. And he will notice it. He will see it, he will feel it, then he will touch it, despite its thorns, despite its juvenile petals, despite or thanks? Perhaps it was thanks to this naivety that he thought he could dominate the power of this young plant. Perhaps he was naive in turn. Finding these errors, weakening before the fantasy of his youth past, regretted, oh so regretted. The lust of that fiery adolescence he left behind, with his mistakes. There he is, in front of the rose. There he is, that mystery. I want them to take me, he wants to take me. But he didn’t take it. He looks at it. He looks at me. Until he loses control.