Red hot days. Red hot nights. Even the moon’s on fire. You sat down just over there, just there, in front of me, so close I could smell your sweetness and I was instantly burning for you, here, in our red city of fire. Then you closed your eyes and that hurt me for its innocence. You looked away and this hurt me too because, in that instant, I ceased to exist and I realised my eyes were just too old and opaque and waxy, too burnt out to interest you, but, you know, they’ll be burning bloodshot for you somewhere out there in the city of fire. Burning for evermore.
You looked away and you were gone. You must have been, what, twelve or thirteen? Thirteen years in this city of fire, where even the moon’s on fire, and you were lost to me in the shimmer of heat rising off the dark, blackened street, and in the chimera of my overheated memories. Only chance will ever have you sit down so close to me ever again and that kind of chance was burnt out for me years ago, you know, when I was just about your age I guess.
In red hot bloodshot mornings I’m burning for you in my red hot city of fire. Burning for your cool blue veins streaming through your fresh transparent downy white skin. The fresh flesh of youth, kissed by no sun at all in the flickering smoky shadows of this city on fire. I’m burning to look into your crystal clear, clean, guileless blue green eyes, eyes that have never ever dwelt on trickery or scheming.
Head slightly lowered, your blonde pageboy fringe shifts slightly in the fresh cleansing breeze you seemed to carry with you in your aura, in your wake, and the nostalgia for youth is like acid in my twisted, swollen veins. Your eyes looked up to me and there was a smile, and no slyness, on your lips and there was a quick childish laugh at nothing in particular I could discern, and so I’m burning for innocence in this city of burning red hot fire. I’m burning with a passion for cold, icy transparency in this red hot city of flames.
Red hot afternoons. I desperately want to pinch just one of those blue chill veins in your chest or neck or temples, or anywhere, or put my lips to your body to see if they really are as cold and delicate and perfect and young as the idea the actors up here in my theatre of memory torment me with all the time.
My name’s Alba, something I guess you’ll never ever, ever know, which means dawn in English, and I’m twenty one years old tomorrow, Saturday the third of May, 2008.
Just one kiss is all I desire on red hot evenings when I need to prove I haven’t been taken in by you, or by my memory in flames.
But it can never be. There’s no new dawn for me. I’m simply just more fuel for the furnaces of a city on fire.
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