La petite mort
La petite mort
She was a portrait of beauty.
Her love was locked away, waiting for the perfect man and the gentle embrace.
She asked me. Was any kindness or good left in me? I told her. Some men need to swim in shit and sin. Can’t feel alive unless buried in warm and new flesh. Being drunk and yearning for new highway and place. Some men do want love, a large house and a woman waiting. I have been in shit so long. I don’t know if I know any kind of peace or salvation? You are too pretty and kind. Men like me, want the Long Island ice tea, whiskey kisses and the slow dance. Just the petite mort. Just release of the little want and need that is left.
She smiled and laughed. She told me. All men can be forgiven. No-one is perfect and all of us will fall down often. Just need a place to rest and find peace.
I kissed her forehead and I told her. I wanted the Hemingway death. I found my wars, I’m slowly drinking myself to death and I love the pretty woman and the taverns. I don’t know what can be saved? I believe you pay for every sin. I told my father. All sins cannot be forgiven. Dear father beat women and was a violence man. Drank a bottle of run nightly and fought every day of his life. He told me. He was forgiven if he went to church on Christmas night. I told him. God will not forgive repetition sin and bad action.
She looked sad and she asked. Why did you follow your father’s ways? Why didn’t you choose the good road? We decide our journey. We do not follow our father’s path unless we want to know the same ending.
Her eyes observed me with questions. I embraced her, kissed her forehead and face cheeks. I whispered. Some men are searching for the perfect death. Some men need to know the petite mort. Men are just beast when overtook with the hunger for war, flesh and the journey. Please find someone who can love. Dead men cannot love. We are just waiting for death.