Rosalie was a wild horse in cheap dresses and high heels. A bright eyed and big haired demon.
The day I fortunately met her, she said she'd be the death of me. I believed her. Anything Rosalie said was true, no matter what it was. That's what the legend said.
She asked me often if I liked her smile and the freckles on her chest. The girl had guts, more than anyone else before or after her.
And I hated to admit it, but her laugh sent me to space and her chest was the station of all my fantasies.
She said she loved me after our first kiss, which happened five minutes after she said hi. She told me she'd seen me in one of her dreams, that I was Mr.
Chosen One number seven, that chosen ones rarely ever happened. I believed it, of course. She was a legend after all.
I was not pure either before I met her, but fuck did the rest of the world seem tasteless after I did.
Rosalie cried a lot, but mostly when she was dancing. Her tears were everywhere because she sometimes cried upside down. Nevertheless I kissed them away, everywhere they went.
She cried out one night that she was the most terrible Christian on Earth, that God would never forgive her everything she did. I agreed.
Though I wouldn't like to be the god that has to judge her.
She was an eloquent liar, my Rosalie. Rosalie, mine. She may well have had a thousand lovers before me, but she swore I was her best and favorite. I tried to believe her. Sometimes I really did.
Most often not.
She fed me things I didn't like or understand. It was all bitter and sour and it sometimes burned my tongue. But everything tasted sweet, inside her mouth. She'd say, "Close your eyes, baby boy.
See how far you can go." And I would. I wouldn't complain.
She filled my heart with cuss words.
She told me stories, too. While stroking my hair, she taught me about people who die alone, who can't live in peace, and never find cures to their diseases.
My Rosalie always looked into my eyes when saying miracles don't happen. I'd start to cry out all the alcohol inside my body. But then she'd unbutton her shirt, unbuckle my belt.
By then it would all be alright.
Rosalie my baby darling always told me that she'd leave me one day, and that I'd never see her again. She broke my heart so many times.
I felt lucky every night she was still there, every time she came back.
My Rosalie broke my head, too. I didn't notice at first, but once I called her at midnight and she didn't answer. She always answered calls at midnight.
Her mechanical voice said to leave her a message and I wonder how many times I called her in the days that followed to hear her repeat it over and over again.
I gave up leaving messages after a few but I still called.
On the days I was pissed drunk at two in the afternoon and the unforgiving sun clawed at my eyes, I called again and asked her to save me, said I was dying and dying without her.
"You can't leave me Rosalie my love please I have no more eyes to cry give me my world back just once more..." But Rosalie was gone like she said she would be and I knew she wouldn't come back.
She'd said it while kissing the corner of my lips, in the kitchen as she danced to a popular song on the radio, in her tiniest underwear. "When it's gone, it's gone.
" Everything Rosalie says is true.
All the awful awful things she'd promised would happen came one after the other like a hurricane that finished to destroy me long before all its effects were gone.
Rosalie, my sweet sweet hurricane. My lungs, my eyes, the inside of my heart. The night. The sweet taste of the drugs on her tongue. The softness of her inner thighs. She took it all with her.
Barely left hair on her pillow, or lipstick on the nightstand. Rosalie my, oh my...
My Rosalie -dear Lord- died in all her excruciating beauty. She didn't wait for her cells to die in slow misery. She traveled vast and far away from me, then fell into the ocean.
A glorious bird, she was. She flew right out of the clear waters, soared far up in the skies, free as an angel could be.
Free as she'd always been, actually, but with no disease in her head or death stuck in her hair.
Rosalie left me without a word.
Well, she'd prepared me all along for her long travel. I was not her first lover but at least I was her last. I judged right that she'd be mine, too.
Standing on the edge of the cliff, I hovered over the sunset colored water. I am prepared alright, Rosalie. Prepared for the long travel that awaits.
Rosalie once said, "It is love, or it's death trying."
Rosalie was always right.