Two Doves of Red Lipstick

act i: walk down the strip, the neon lights casting a gaudy glow on the fray. i meet my dealer, a facilitator of welcome distraction, and we exchange nods. i take a bump, and the rush is immediate. the stripper, a sinuous seductress, beckons me over, and I'm drawn to her fire. we make out, our bodies moving in a sensual rhythm, and I'm lost in the moment. act ii: later, as we ride towards her place, i catch my breath and try to recall why i came to this city. it’s a haze of fragmented memories and fleeting desires. i think of my art, my poetry, and the rebellion that drives me. but in this moment, none of that matters. all that's real is the pounding bass, the strobe lights, and the taste of her skin. act iii: as we pull up to her place, i take a deep breath and let the chaos consume me. i think to myself: "in the abyss of excess, where meaning dissolves and the world is reduced to noise, can we still find beauty? can we grasp the threads of connection that bind us, or are we forever lost in the abyss of our own desires?" i shake my head, and the questions fade into the night. act iv: we pour ourselves into the dimly lit apartment, the shadows dancing on the walls as we shed our skin like worn gloves. the air is thick with the scent of smoke and premature dawn. i fumble for a cigarette, my fingers feeling for the familiar shape of my metal companion, and light it with a ball of fire that crackles in the silence. act v: the stripper, her name is lola, whispers sweet nothings into my ear, her words weaving a silky web of entendre and discarded dreams. i laugh, a throaty, unadulterated sound, and she nudges me playfully, her fingers drumming a soft cadence on my chest. intermission: wait. no. hyggelig, i take a throatful of the acrid cigarette smoke and try to steady myself. act vi: lola looks at me, concern curling her lip, and i reaches out, my hand a bridge between worlds. "it’s just the city, chéri," i say, the words carried on a sea of cigarette smoke. "sometimes it gets a little too much." act vii: lola and i sit on the couch, hands entwined, watching the city's hideous beauty unfurl outside our window. mamihlapinatapai, i tell her about the poem i’m writing, the one that's taken root in my psuche like a razor-sharp vine. she listens, her eyes sparkling with a curious gaze new to me, as i pour out the inky darkness of my being. act viii: we sit on the couch, the neon lights of the strip diffused through the blinds, casting a mystical glow on lola's face. she’s a creature of mystery, a siren who mellifluously enchants seduction with each laugh, each whispered promise. i’m drawn to her, helpless as an insect to a fenestra. "i wrote a poem tonight," i say, the words spilling out like honey from a jar. "it’s about this city, about the way it gets under your skin, makes you crave more." lola's eyes sparkle, her fingers drumming a slow beat on my thigh. "tell me more," she says, her voice a low purr. i take a deep breath, letting the words flow like a river. "it’s about the moments in between the mundane, the beau like this moment here, the chaos that unfolds like a shroud around us all. about how we crave the forbidden, the unseen, the thrill of the unknowning." lola's face lights up, her eyes flashing like fireflies on a summer night. “i know that dance," she says, her voice a whispered promise. "the one where we surrender to the madness, let it carry us away on a tide of surrender." i nod, feeling the connection between us like a high-wire tightrope walker's balance bar. "that’s the one," i say, my heart pounding in my chest. "the dance of chaos, where we lose ourselves in the decadence of the abyss." lola leans in, her lips brushing against mine. "i want to dance with you," she whispers, her breath like a gentle breeze on a crisp summer night. i take her hand, feeling the thrum of electricity between us like a live wire’s wire. “well let's dance but first," i say, my voice a reckless whisper. roses are colorful flowers red or blue, both devoured velvet plush, life’s succubus l'appel du vide, toska forelsket lola nods, her hand tightening around mine. "i know what you mean," she says, her voice husky with experience. "sometimes i feel like i'm drowning in the noise, like i’m trying to hold on to a handful of sand." i squeeze her hand, my heart pounding in my chest. “that's where the beauty comes in," i whisper, my breath carrying on the wind. "in the chaos, there's always a glimmer of something more."