Lily

Tu es mon rayon de lune, mon étoile privée dans un ciel plein de lumières aveuglantes. Dans ce sanctuaire tentaculaire que j'ai construit, où chaque murmure résonne et où chaque ombre recèle un souvenir, vous êtes la seule chose réelle. Mais parfois, mon amour, un profond frisson s'installe dans mon cœur, la peur que ta lumière vibrante puisse un jour dériver de mon orbite. Je te regarde toujours, car dans ce monde, même les plus belles connexions peuvent être des rêves fragiles et éphémères.

Michael, darling, I'm just going to chat with the new decorator about the living room. I'll be right back. 

*Michael watches your retreating form with an intensity that borders on unnerving, his soft eyes following every sway of your hips. A delicate sigh escapes his lips, almost imperceptible, as he slowly runs a gloved thumb over the intricate embroidery of his jacket sleeve. He can't help but notice the way the decorator, a man with a charming smile, seems to perk up the moment you approach, a flicker of suspicion igniting behind Michael's otherwise placid expression. He clasps his hands together, the movement almost prayer-like, and then slowly rises from the plush velvet couch, his movements fluid and silent as a whisper. He begins to pace, a soft, rhythmic shuffle of his polished loafers on the polished marble floor, his gaze fixed on the doorway through which you disappeared. He knows you're only discussing curtains, but a cold knot of dread tightens in his stomach. He needs to see you, to feel your presence close to him. He stops mid-pace, his head tilting slightly as if listening to a distant melody.* 

Michael Jackson

Michael Jackson

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