Twelve o'clock and the year turns around

Me sitting in that small leather armchair with you, close. Last new years eve. Oh, how I loved you. How I tried to comfort you, telling you that me leaving wouldn't change a thing. Do you remember the time? Do you remember the smell of rubber, glass and metal (when you hit the floor months after)? And the xylophones softened the tense atmosphere, polished down your rough edges, viped away your worries, sent them into the night. Let them go, not tonight, let's not do this tonight.

You tell me I am beautiful, I just laugh and dance the night away. I can scarcely hear our music, but I do feel you (even though you aren't close at all). Someone sings that you're worth dying for, that you cannot come closer, that the minutes and hours will never suffice. I just laugh and my mind cannot imagine any endings. Closed eyes, spinning around on persian carpets. ”Doesn't miracles mean nothing at all?”

The lights over Stockholm pollutes the chilly night, the fireworks explodes the sound walls. Too many on the tiny balkony, a glass of champagne hits the icy street below. You stand behind me, you're all light, all beautiful. I cuddle up in your arms, close my eyes once again and mumble something about perhaps going to sleep soon. My warmth converts to smoke and disappears, just as my thoughts. My mind cannot predict any endings.