Paris, Texas (Wenders, 1984)

Were you aware of the soured pucker of your cheeks holding back the hoarse gasp that tried to escape, and how your eyes bulged as you instinctively reached behind you for a familiar hand or crutch? He reached for you, like a dead limb from a tree, just laying there, waiting to burn or be broken, and your touch was like the slight hand of a child full of fear in your naive trust. What beautiful dreams you two had in the scrambled malaise of fevered love.  Dirty visions of wild dust-ups, and faces red with anger, would always be cleared away by soft tumbles and clutches in twisted bed sheets and pillows stained with saliva, and smelled of your hair.

Now they are all just memories, on the frayed and faded red carpet that covers your path, spotted by the stains of tears, muddied by the dust that won’t ever stop blowing. If not for the scars you do well to hide, one would wonder if you ever loved at all, but you both know better than that.

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