Over de liefde en roken

Je komt wel eens van die teksten tegen die je uit het niets stevig weten te raken. Dit is er zoeen:

Years later, we bumped into each other at the club. She was waiting for me, really, but I didn’t mind. There will always be something about her that just kills me, and she knows it. Is that why she’d come? What do I care? I’d been lonely for too long. When she saw me, she took one final puff from her cigarette, then stamped it out and looked up at me — hopefully, and a little afraid. So I said ‘Hey’, as though nothing had gone down. As the we’d parted only moments ago. As though..as though…I said ‘hey’ and she smiled back to me. Then arm-in-arm we marched right to my bed.

God, how I loved her.

I thought there must be some hope, some way, some future we could share. I though of faith and destiny, past lives and tea leaves, of black magic and voodoo and anything else that might explain our current rendezvous, as we went about our serious business of washing my sheets in tears and sweat.

As usual.

God, how I loved her then. I was addicted to her, and she to me. And we always found ourselves rather easily lowering ourselves into each other’s hottest fires. Fearlessly leaping into the abyss, mouths locked together in a kiss that killed us long before we hit the ground.
Afterwards, we lay there smoking, legs entwined. She spoke softly everything that came to mind, avoiding only that which was real, and the thousand pieces of my heart broke again, into a million, leaving a fine layer of bittersweet dust on my tongue which then burned away with every inhalation of my hot smoke. She could still have me, if only she’d let me go. But she won’t, ever, and even now she holds me tight with her milky-white thigh and her flat stomach pressed against my hip and her soft, firm breasts pushing against my chest.

And I just wanting to die, to disappear behind my cloud, and listen to her prattle on forever and ever…

London, England, November

I sit staring at the phone and my pack of smokes which sit side by side on the table before me. The cold grey skies bring out the veteran Heathcliff complex which resides in me, near the surface, always ready to rise. She’d never been to England. She would love it here…
My hand reaches towards the table, tentatively rests on the phone. She’s a call away, waiting.

Pain is only one plane flight away.

Ecstasy on delivery. My hand leaves the phone and swoops up my pack of cigarettes. I light one up and inhale deeply. No, I won’t call. I must drop these bad habits one at a time.
And I must start now, with her.

‘Goodbye Catherine’ whispers Heathcliff from the thickening cloud of smoke that surrounds him to this day

Bill Hicks – (een deel van)”Thoughts on Love and Smoking”