Showery footsteps followed the image of the young woman gazing steadily in front of the mirror. Drizzly hair dripping slowly on a wooden floor, a rhythm emptier than eternity. A loose, carefree white shirt embracing her body, semi-moist, fairly unbuttoned. She seems fiery, water mixed with salty sweat, yet , those eyes, glassy from fever reflect only the dim predawn sadness.
It seems the years have now passed by me, yielding even themselves to the pressure of existence, glimpsing into smiles and love -surrendering nights. Defining myself through the heartbeat of my lover, drifting away from loneliness like the healthy detest illness. I used to eagerly await for a sign of intimacy, turning into an explosive dopamine source, frantically happy for being dependant on someone, bewitched by that persisting impulse to feel tears of bliss on my cheeks for a lifetime.
These thoughts dissolved calmly into the misty bedroom. Behind me, the still body of that man greeted that perspective. His hands gripping the crimson sheets in a last attempt of protection, a shameful epiphany of a monstrous woman leaning on the bed for goodbye. Through silenced lips lovely words never survive.
The reflection on the mirror slowly started to fade, hiding into the humid void. Along with it, some far away sirens started making noise.
Apparently, I am not the woman I thought I was.