This Must Be My Dream / The 1975

7

"how does it end?" she suddenly asks me, sitting down on the bed, unzipping her dress. her head slowly falling down on the soft cushions, but it looks like she's not in control of her body anymore. her voice brings me back to reality and i don't know how to answer.

"does it matter?" i rub my eyes and she whispers, "i don't know,"

"miss monroe," she giggles again, "i love how you turn a hotel room into a home, the way you pick up strays wherever you go, the way you know the words to every song," i pause, "every song," i emphasize, "especially the bad ones," she pops back up, her eyes not leaving mine, "did you just quote almost famous to me?" i laugh, "yeah, but it's too accurate not to, especially the part about your name," she shakes her head in a slow motion, "and for a moment there i thought you were being romantic and making up the words right now," i laugh again, "and monroe is my name," she whispers, "my mom always said my name is so cool because no one would think it is a real name," she lights up a cigarette, "but sometimes i feel like it erases me. like i'm stuck in between being real and being just a myth, because no one is sure if i really exist,"

"yeah, but myths become legends and no one forgets a legend,"

"so now we're in florida and then we're going where?" she changes the subject, and finally pulls off her dress and throws it in my direction, failing miserably. i laugh at her, "missed," and she shows me her tongue.

she's now in only her underwear and of course, she is beautiful.

"we're gonna stay in florida for a couple of days, then, i think, it's atlanta,"

/ monroe /

there's words in his eyes he's desperate to tell me - or maybe not only to me. he wants the whole world to know about the way he loves.

and he does sing the soft melodies of how his heart works when it's under a spell of a woman he laid eyes on. and he creates beautifully ornamented verses, hides the meaning behind metaphors that might as well be as deep as his dark eyes.

but he does that ever so mysteriously, in a way only the one he wrote for would understand.

or maybe that's how i understand his poetry. how i understand the lost words in his eyes. how i understand him.

it's a glorious feeling, when someone notices you and invites you over, having a smoke with you and maybe for the whole night we do nothing more than talking. about everything and anything. how in one night i get to explore a soul as beautiful as the artist's soul can be. and he feels like he knows me, and it's nice because at least he's interested. but instead of telling him about my life, i light up a cigarette, or a joint, or pop a pill. all the while, he already forgets he asked anything. so maybe we kiss and maybe we don't. i'm usually gone by the morning and i hear a song about me some time after a magical night.

i can feel his gaze on me, there's joy hidden in his breathing. excitement. it could only be the drugs - he has had plenty tonight.

"why did you dye your hair grey?"

i take a lock of hair and wrap it around my finger, "it felt right," i look up at him and invite him to the bed where we only sit for a few moments, each observing the other, finding little bits of emotions hidden in his fingers, in his chest - which moves up and down as he breathes - blissfully. i put my hand on the left side of his chest, trying to feel his heart beat and he lays his hand on mine, squeezing it lightly, "can you feel it?" he whispers and i nod, "it's not as irregular as it was on the night we met," he smiles and his free hand touches my cheek, tracing my face - from the bottom of my lips to my eyebrows and his fingers feel like clouds bumping into my face.

his hand goes down my neck and on the side of my chest where my heart starts beating faster as he gets closer to it.

and i want to photograph this beautiful picture, i want to remember it forever, even when my heart might not beat for him any more. if that will ever happen.

i want to photograph the way we try to figure ourselves out. how we try to calm our hearts, our brains. how fragile - yet how strong we actually are.

"i want to know you better," he says, pulling my hand to his lips, placing soft kisses on my fingers and on my palm.

and as i look at him, i realise how much i want him to know me. how i'm not scared for him to know me. how safe i feel when i'm around him and how he makes me feel like i'm real.

"why don't you figure my heart out?" i quote his own lyrics to him, making him let out a subtle giggle.

"do you regret anything?" i go closer to him and shake my head, "all i regret is that i couldn't help my mother more," i sit down on his lap, kissing his lips gently, "have you ever been in love?" i kiss him again, "i don't know, maybe," i push him down on the bed, feeling his fingers running through my hair, "how do you live like this?"

"my grandparents left me a lot of money," he laughs, "i didn't mean it like that," i nod, "i know," i kiss his neck, "so?"

"so, i don't know. i just believe that if there was a book written about me, it would have to be thick," he flips me over, kissing my breasts and my belly, "do you want to fall in love?" he looks up and kisses my lips, "i think i already am,"

with that i kiss him passionately and roughly, trying to close the gaps between our bodies that could possibly separate us.

and we make sweet love, love that i haven't felt in a long time, love that would make the sun jealous of it's burning. the moon of it's passion. the ocean of it's craving. the wind of it's destruction. the shooting stars of the way we had fallen for each other - no shooting star could compete with the way we had fallen - because we never burnt out, we never faded, we only kept going stronger and the whole world knew.