STYLING Irene Astete
GROOMING Hind Sousan using Makeup Forever
PRODUCTION Studio Olympia
TALENTS European Vampires
Nothing is real in the continent, I’m chevaliers and painters crossing the river from droite to gauche, looking straight into the camera as someone says: “Little did I know we ended up naked.”

Things got out of hand, they say, constantly talking about these magical shining objects that were never in your grasp in the first place, this and a jus d’orange and maybe a kiss, just one little peck of tenderness before I leave for the nexts and the futures and the maybes, another giant leap of faith into what could’ve been or what will be, I still haven’t found the right place to place my right foot and start running.


Walking under the rain, little drops of silence filling the void, another light that goes off, no apparent problem, goes off and walks away and all I can hear is your breathing, hers, locking eyes on a dark road, straight and up and down as there’s only a few seconds left.


Still, they say it’s magical, as if the rest of the world wasn’t, as if you can say what’s real and what’s not just because you saw it in a movie, read it in a book, or heard it in a song.
Am I that kind of love? Like East of Eden, first part of the trilogy, like the knife that almost cuts you out for good when you’re trying to leave…


Who am I to say these things, who am I to be the judge and the executioner of my own punishment?
Love is like Faith, and I was raised Catholic.


But that’s the same song playing in the background while you’re kissing her lips. There’s no escape, there’s no mistake, it’s your song, it’s her and your song, that one you cried and planned about, that one that makes you feel like she never left but now you’re here and she’s fuck knows where and at the same time you’re in the most distant place in the universe, sitting by yourself listening to the muffled voices of that song’s last call.


I’m a piece of paper with your number thrown away from a jet, miles away from where I should’ve been, crashing over mountains, in the distance, picked up by winds and strangers, thrown in the garbage, becoming molecules of nothingness, nothing but a shattered memory, glass sharp, randomly cutting the present, my present, which I have so thoroughly salvaged from the storm at the end of our love. Millions of miles, kilometers of land and houses before, when we were one, listening to the same exact song, whispering the answer to a question we never asked.


This is forever.