The Tale of The Queen of Hearts
Man Sings About Romance
I can’t say her tale started when I met you, it didn’t. She wasn’t even on scene at that time, so I can’t just say so. No her tale started on the road, on a dark night illuminated by cigarette lighters and cheap fair fireworks going on and off, lacking of rhythm and soul.
In those times we travelled like a circus on the road, shambling madly through tiny concrete streets, stumbling to the brick walls of every little village, passing over them like they’d never even been there. Think of Coventry, Essex, small places that were in theory bigger than they seemed, but for us they were baby steps towards London.
We travelled light, and that was the life for us, picking stones and busking for coins, whistling to simple folk tunes, tapping our feet to this new song, and acting for a public that never expected us. I’d work as waitress in local dinners, getting one buck tips and giving them away to mates from the streets. Remember how you’d steal red apples every morning? and we’d eat a half each, even when we had two apples, we’d always eat half and half.
That sweaty night we passed through a small village, of low population numbers and even lower pub ones. We were desperate for some action, anything for a stage to a stool and a microphone, hell we didn’t even need a microphone.
It began when you got up from your velvet seat on the back and played the fool on a stage that didn’t belong to you, but no audience would ever bring you down. That’s right; it all began when you did what you still do, while no one else is around. The tale begins here with your grin upon your smile, your lips upon the air, your wavy hair flying like you just didn’t care, and while all around the cheers pulled the strings to you music. God I was a fool for you, the man who could sing about love and depression and liberty, the man who sang about romance.
In that dingy local pub, everyone was so cheery listening eagerly to your tunes, like they could make them happy. In that lost town that stood in our way to London, so god darn close, a trip of two years and finally we’d be howling to the Mecca, to our London, our full London, shinning like a full moon, understood to it’s last means, lived before seen. But I never laid eyes upon our London. Perhaps if she wouldn’t have been there, in the back of the crowded room of smoky air… Whatever, it is far too late to wonder about the past, I’m just here to tell the tale.
That night though, the greasy ceiling, the red blood four walls, the lamps swinging with the non-existent zephyr, the sweaty voices singing along, me, standing in jeans aside of that stolen stage, waving the most hidden reproaching smile to your chords; that night, everything belonged to you, even the queen of hearts. You portrayed each aspect of life that I couldn’t live; you were a man, not a boy, have you become any younger? You were roughed up, a little bit fucked up, high as a kite, and willing to fight as a man of your age.
The heat of your slurry voice was tiring the last words, as the cheap scotch worked your mind towards my neckline, my skin, my scent, my thin arms wrapped around you, not your neck, not your chest, wrapped around you. That was the last night you belonged entirely to the trap behind my kisses, and I sensed it, somehow. She must have been staring from the distance, staring as you gave me my last real kiss, with your mouth so rosy against mine, and your breath so warm breathing for me, my finger on your lips speaking of silence; to think she might have been staring from the safety of the distance. I wonder if she was secretly happy, you know I never got happy people, if they are happy then they are just not there.
In those times we travelled like a circus on the road, shambling madly through tiny concrete streets, stumbling to the brick walls of every little village, passing over them like they’d never even been there. Think of Coventry, Essex, small places that were in theory bigger than they seemed, but for us they were baby steps towards London.
We travelled light, and that was the life for us, picking stones and busking for coins, whistling to simple folk tunes, tapping our feet to this new song, and acting for a public that never expected us. I’d work as waitress in local dinners, getting one buck tips and giving them away to mates from the streets. Remember how you’d steal red apples every morning? and we’d eat a half each, even when we had two apples, we’d always eat half and half.
That sweaty night we passed through a small village, of low population numbers and even lower pub ones. We were desperate for some action, anything for a stage to a stool and a microphone, hell we didn’t even need a microphone.
It began when you got up from your velvet seat on the back and played the fool on a stage that didn’t belong to you, but no audience would ever bring you down. That’s right; it all began when you did what you still do, while no one else is around. The tale begins here with your grin upon your smile, your lips upon the air, your wavy hair flying like you just didn’t care, and while all around the cheers pulled the strings to you music. God I was a fool for you, the man who could sing about love and depression and liberty, the man who sang about romance.
In that dingy local pub, everyone was so cheery listening eagerly to your tunes, like they could make them happy. In that lost town that stood in our way to London, so god darn close, a trip of two years and finally we’d be howling to the Mecca, to our London, our full London, shinning like a full moon, understood to it’s last means, lived before seen. But I never laid eyes upon our London. Perhaps if she wouldn’t have been there, in the back of the crowded room of smoky air… Whatever, it is far too late to wonder about the past, I’m just here to tell the tale.
That night though, the greasy ceiling, the red blood four walls, the lamps swinging with the non-existent zephyr, the sweaty voices singing along, me, standing in jeans aside of that stolen stage, waving the most hidden reproaching smile to your chords; that night, everything belonged to you, even the queen of hearts. You portrayed each aspect of life that I couldn’t live; you were a man, not a boy, have you become any younger? You were roughed up, a little bit fucked up, high as a kite, and willing to fight as a man of your age.
The heat of your slurry voice was tiring the last words, as the cheap scotch worked your mind towards my neckline, my skin, my scent, my thin arms wrapped around you, not your neck, not your chest, wrapped around you. That was the last night you belonged entirely to the trap behind my kisses, and I sensed it, somehow. She must have been staring from the distance, staring as you gave me my last real kiss, with your mouth so rosy against mine, and your breath so warm breathing for me, my finger on your lips speaking of silence; to think she might have been staring from the safety of the distance. I wonder if she was secretly happy, you know I never got happy people, if they are happy then they are just not there.
♠ ♠ ♠
Second chapter hope you like =D