"When a man says

'I love you'

while you're doing it

he doesn't say it

because he loves

you

but because

he loves

what you're doing".

That's what she said,

a little drunk,

talking and laughing

with her friend.

I looked at her,

a few steps away,

inhibited by

alcohol

and

by her sight.

She conveyed 

vermillion red,

passion,

wildness,

poetry.

Men look at her

they fuck her

with their eyes,

they offer drinks to her,

they offer cigarettes:

she accepts them.

They just want to fuck,

she wants to

keep them

on their toes,

play with them,

have fun,

fool them.

She is a dominatrix.

I look at her

an inch away from cracking up,

from uncover myself.

No, anybody have to see

what is burning

between us.

No, anybody have to notice

our sights.

Meanwhile i see

bearded,

fit,

slimy

assholes

trying to touch her ass;

offering

more alcohol,

more cigarettes,

listening to her maundering

Watching her throwing up.

But after that night

received their own

red

two of spades

they will never

show them off 

again,

and they will never

remember her name too.

And 

chaining down my tongue

i pour whiskey

on my 

stupid 

sentimentalism.

And while she said

"When a man says

'I love you'

while you're doing it

he doesn't say it

because he loves

you

but because

he loves

what you're doing"

I thought that earlier

we had made love,

in secret,

like mice,

and that i said 

to her

looking at her

big

deer eyes

"i love you"

though i knew

that the only answer

that i would received

would been

silence.