KRISTINA SAVARAUSKAITE
ITALIAN DREAM
ITALIAN DREAM
KRISTINA SAVARAUSKAITE
Dedicated to the loved ones
-
Forever with love, we will meet when we set free our souls.
I cried I died I cheated I lied I drank all the wine I was high I burned I lived I loved I learned I met love I fucked it up I was silent I was fake I was myself I was alive I did mistakes I was the best I was the worst I didin’t know how to lose And I lost
“BEAUTY IS A FORM OF GENIUS”
- Oscar Wilde “The Picture Of Dorian Gray”
Beauty And Pain Hidden Beneath perfection
**Last memory**
Dreamy day in Bologna
High on the heels of Bologna, I stood with the world seemingly at my feet, the ancient city sprawled below bathed in the soft glow of twilight. The feeling was intoxicating, as though I had all the time and all the world just for myself. You enveloped me in gratitude with your eyes, sitting next to me, yet in that perfect moment, I was blissfully unaware of the chasm that had begun to open between us. You were there, so close I could feel the warmth of your breath, yet your mind was miles away, veiled in thoughts you wouldn’t share. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to freeze time. We spoke of Italian cinema, and I felt like I was living in one of those films. You, with your cold allure, sensually distant yet undeniably charming, pushed me away after pulling me close. “This is the Italian men in movies,” you remarked casually, a slight smirk playing on your lips. “Women cheat on them; but they are doing that already,” you continued, declaring it part of their charm. I shivered, not from the cool air but from the sudden coldness in your tone, scared as I gazed at the calming view and into the most beautiful face I had ever known. I didn’t want to leave, I didn’t… But eventually, I did.
Returning to Milan was like stepping into another world, one where I no longer recognized myself. That night, lost in the city’s embrace, I committed sins in an attempt to feel something, anything. But the numbness prevailed. Soon after, you followed me. I was dressed in black, the same dress I wore on New Year’s Eve when I watched the ballet at La Scala—a night magical, unforgettable, the night our story began. Now, back to the present, the occasion felt eerily similar, yet hollow. You said you love me but you are not in love with me anymore. The same year, the same dress, the same place, it appeared as if nothing had changed, yet the time we had spent together and my dreams seemed to have vanished into thin air.
Something within me died that evening, a part of my soul perhaps, extinguished under the weight of your indifference. But in this city, in the relentless pace of Milan, there’s no room for the luxury of mourning lost love. I understand now, in Bologna, you didn’t say it, but it was evident: “Run faster from here, save yourself.”
I knew I would be hurt, but I also knew that my pain would fade with time. For you, however, the ghosts of what we had would haunt every silent night. The echo of our laughter, the shadow of our dance, would be your companions in the darkness, long after my sorrow had ebbed away.
**Pigeons of Milan** 2023.09.22.
This is the day my life changed irreversibly. Looking back, I doubt I’d have the courage to endure it all again if I had the chance to rewind time.
I moved to Milan — the city of fashion and cocaine. It was my dream, fear was a stranger to me then. I felt as though I could conquer the world. Such naïve audacity, I was a young maximalist whose confidence outstripped her capabilities. I didn’t even know how to cook, how to live independently, or how to take care of myself. I was forced to mature overnight, though that “one day” stretched across a year.
I am intelligent, yet I am an artist at heart. I tend to overthink, but my thoughts aren’t bound by logic, rationality, or realism. And that’s not a flaw or a fault. I simply chose to sidestep adult dilemmas—it was all intentional. My inner child was indefatigable, wandering the streets of Milan like a lost, homeless, yet blissfully ignorant pigeon. But I was content, peering into every nook with wide, childlike eyes, finding everything new, uncharted, thrilling, and noteworthy.
“This is beauty,” I would declare. “This is genius.” Perhaps I am just a pigeon of Milan, but I see the potential to soar—not like the natives here, who seem to despise their surroundings. They are colorless, always in a rush. I only hope they find a moment of peace to savor their final breath.
Sometimes I ponder whether I am merely fortunate or if I was chosen for this charmed life. I’ve always been surrounded by an endless source of love—a loving family, caring friends, admiration from others, and a flourishing career in fashion. Doors swing open wherever I step. But I often wonder, what would happen if one day those doors shut? I’ve never faced a true loss; how will I cope with imperfections when my instinct is to look away?
I was supposed to feel lonely, to encounter the typical struggles that come with moving abroad. Yet, I didn’t. Everything was seamless, beautiful, and I was utterly enchanted. I knew I was loved, and with that certainty, I believed everything would be alright. Still, my attachment to my mother sometimes frightens me, what if no other love feels quite right?
One night in Monza, as I wandered the narrow streets— idealizing Italy, sipping copious amounts of wine, sitting in a bar—a mysterious woman caught my eye, and I caught hers. She seemed like a secret worth unraveling, vintage and almost surreal. Her eyes sparkled, but those sparkles were tears born from a hard life.
She appeared elegant yet crazy, like an unrecognized artist or a witch with supernatural abilities. My heart yearned to know her story. Her muffled, husky voice broke the silence, asking, “Where are you from?” Despite being from opposite ends of the earth, there was a familiarity as if I had known her in another life.
She became my guardian angel in this new city. Like a mother teaching her child to walk, she guided my first steps in Milan, helping me find my footing. With her, I discovered a sense of home—if I had not been scared before, now I felt truly settled.
She lived in solitude but was not alone, accompanied by her own ghosts. Instead of roaming through clubs and dabbling in drugs, I spent almost every evening talking with her, captivated by her soul. I believe that encountering such a spirit is the universe’s greatest gift. She never had a family of her own, yet she offered me a mother’s love. I was a stranger, but she welcomed me into her life without expecting anything in return. How is such generosity still possible in this world?
She is special, her artistic soul eager to express, only few are willing to listen. It pains me to think that her art might one day fade into dust.
While I am young with the world at my fingertips, I realize that talent alone is not enough—it’s tough to offer your heart to the world and hope it will be embraced with love.
Her life is a beautiful chaos. I often see her as a mirror to my future self, offering protection and wisdom to avoid her own missteps.
I am fortunate, truly so... And yet, my only real challenge was to confront myself—a feat I feared too daunting until I met Dorian Gray. Through him, I began to explore all of the deeper shades.
If I had ever believed Italy was a dream, I was sorely mistaken. You are the dream from which I fervently hope never to awaken.
Christmas in Milan carried the scent of poetry through its streets. Once, I had whimsically wished to meet my own Dorian Gray, and as the festive season wrapped its arms around the city, it seemed my gift had been granted. The city was draped in soft yellow lights that twinkled like stars, casting a glow that mingled with the fresh scent of rain—a setting that could stir nostalgia and romance in even the most hardened hearts. Yet, amidst this picturesque backdrop, my gaze was drawn irresistibly to a man standing by the bar.
Dressed in a long cobalt blue cashmere coat, he seemed slightly out of place in the Italian chill, a cigarette held loosely between his fingers.
The smoke curled up into the sky, his personal cloud of mystery that eclipsed every other luminance Milan offered. The fragrance of his perfume wafted through the air, overpowering the rich food scents from nearby restaurants, transporting me to an ecstatic state where I felt more alive than ever.
He was waiting for me, of this I was certain, just as I had been waiting for him. Closing my eyes, I allowed him to pull me into a profound dream.
“Such a remarkable style,” he commented as I approached.
I felt more lost than my first day in Italy. “Thank you, I study fashion design,” I replied with a laugh, my cheeks flushing with a bashful warmth.
He opened the door to the bar, gesturing for me to enter. As we sat down at a table, my hands were slick with perspiration, and the sound of my own heartbeat seemed deafening in my ears. From the moment we met, I surrendered control, letting him choose for us both.
“Where is my wine?” I murmured under my breath, hoping not to appear as though I’d seen a ghost and was dying of shyness. But of course, he noticed.
“Do you believe in God?” he asked suddenly, and it was then I realized—I had met him, the one I was meant to find.
He was unlike any other—a vision so striking, he seemed more fiction than flesh, a modern Dorian Gray with blond, longer hair, an elegant style, and masculine, light brown eyes that seemed to hold worlds of secrets. When I whispered the comparison, his smile flickered with a dark intrigue that sent shivers down my spine.
“Will you marry me, Dorian?” I blurted out audaciously.
Under the twinkling lights of a dreamlike Milan, he kissed me.
He drew me into his world with magnetic immediacy, his life an exhilarating whirlwind of luxury and splendor that transformed each day into a tableau worthy of the grandest theatrical performance. Every movement he made was steeped in elegance, every word he uttered was cloaked in a poetic charm that seemed to resonate with deeper meanings. I found myself completely captivated, ensnared in the intricate web of his charisma, and flattered by the illusion that I alone was privy to the depths of his enigmatic soul.
He invited me to his birthday, having known me for only a few days. He wanted to make me feel special, a gesture so early in our acquaintance that was both thrilling and unnerving. And so, embracing the playful nature of our budding connection, I decided to reciprocate in kind.
“I have a gift for you,” I announced, my voice a mix of excitement and mystery.
He appeared surprised, but it was a superficial reaction. I could tell that material gifts didn’t hold much value for him. You cannot buy a heart, after all. Love was the treasure he sought, but he wasn’t introduced with love.
I presented him with a vintage silver cigarette case, elegantly inscribed with his name—to paint him more like Dorian Gray.
“You will make me fall in love with you,” he responded with a hint of flirtation in his voice.
I laughed it off as though I hadn’t heard, but internally, I made a silent vow: I would make him fall in love, if not with me, then with the reflection of himself he saw in my eyes.
His room was an eclectic mix of chaos and culture—books strewn about, papers scattered, a guitar resting against a pile of cushions, various medications peeking
out from under a lamp, and the persistent scent of weed hanging in the air. He was complicated, a labyrinthine soul whose voice, both literal and metaphorical, I couldn’t quite discern amidst the haze.
That night, we delved into an artistic soirée. Reading poetry in French, singing songs in Italian, immersing ourselves in an atmosphere thick with the aroma of romance and artifice. He was a master at crafting impressions that bordered on the surreal, reveling in the performance of it all. He enjoyed being watched and he liked me because I watched and adored. But he had perfected this art with many before me, each step rehearsed to perfection.
I reassured myself with a thought, a whisper in the back of my mind: “Why not to enjoy?” I was safe as long as I kept my heart guarded, as long as I didn’t fall in love.
Happy New Year!
Thus concludes the season of winter festivities. The period of Christmas, with its peculiar enchantment, stirs a warmth in the soul, compelling a patient countdown to the twenty-fourth, when the world pauses to honor the birth of Christ. One languishes in eager anticipation of cherished reunions, of gathering beneath the gentle glow of familial love at a laden table. Yet, such sentimental scenes are not universal, for many, the season serves only to underscore their solitude. Is there someone with whom you share your innermost thoughts, or who embraces you, declaring you their most precious gift? Does tranquility truly reside within the walls of your own abode?
The New Year, however, dons a different guise—a celebration tinged with pretense. What is it, truly, that we await with such fervor? Change, as we well know, is not confined to the turning of a calendar page, nor does the chiming of midnight cleanse us of our forgotten vows. Indeed, it is the broken who find solace in this charade, a masquerade of renewal where none is truly expected.
Let us traverse back to an era when celebrations were grand affairs in theatres, where art was both venerated and adorned, and where the elite cloaked themselves in the opulence of their whims. On such a night, I allowed myself the illusion of belonging to that glittering realm—endowed with limitless wealth and effervescent champagne, clad in garments that drew the admiring gaze of all. As ballet dancers floated across the stage and classical melodies filled the air, gratitude overwhelmed me, coaxing tears of joy from my eyes. Overcome by the beauty of the moment, I silently entreated the universe to grant me a love as profound as the night was long.
Enchanted by this vision, I sought to capture its essence and preserve it in a sanctum where time would dare not tread. With haste, I journeyed to his home town, house veiled by a mystical garden where light and shadow danced an eternal ballet. The house, a silent custodian of myriad tales of passion, sorrow, and demise, was adorned with artifacts of a bygone age—rare volumes, musical instruments, and ivory furnishings. Yet, towering above all was his portrait, spanning an entire wall, its grandeur startling me. Although I had likened him to Dorian Gray in my fancies, confronting the tangible likeness blurred the lines between reality and imagination, stirring a subtle unease within my breast.
“What do you seek? What is it that you desire?” he inquired, his fingers languidly caressing the piano keys.
“Just love,” was my simple, earnest reply.
At this, he ceased his playing and approached, his voice a tender murmur promising to satiate my yearnings. But as night deepened, a sinister chill encroached, and shadows began to stir. When panic seized him, his heart thundering against my own, I wondered— had my presence touched something within him?
I craved the warmth of authentic affection, yet his kisses were as cool as the porcelain of his visage, and no plea of mine could breach the fortifications around his heart. It seemed he had mastered the art of emotion from scripts and scenes observed, adapting swiftly. But the lingering question remained: Was his performance driven by genuine feeling, or maerely an actor’s talent for mimicry?
Exploring Bologna with Dorian Gray was akin to stepping inside a vast, living museum where each turn and corner unveiled a masterpiece, each shadowed nook a story. Dorian, fluent in the city’s secret language, navigated its cobbled streets with an air of familiarity reserved for its most devoted lovers. He knew every hidden enclave, every sacred space, drawing back the curtains of obscurity to reveal the divine tapestry woven into the city’s spiritual life.
In each church we entered, it felt like a solemn meeting with the divine. Dorian, a complex figure himself, balanced on the edge of holiness. Marked by many sins, he yet stood in those sacred halls almost like a saint. His guidance was not just a tour of ancient buildings but a spiritual journey.
He spoke of the divine with a passion that seemed to make the very paintings and statues listen—a reflection not just of his intelligence but of a spiritual depth that cut through his usual worldly facade. Seeing Dorian in this new light was an eye-opener. He seemed free from his usual tricks and disguises, clear of the skepticism.
Instead, here, in the quiet and incense-filled air of the churches, he was sincere, real—almost transparent. Walking beside him, I found myself silent, deeply thinking. In my mind, he became like an angel from a Renaissance painting, a figure of breathtaking beauty and tragic purity.
The image of Dorian Gray that haunted me seemed to fade, washed away by this newfound holiness. I no longer wanted just to admire him from a distance. I wished to understand the mystery of his soul, to connect with the almost spiritual presence he showed in these quiet moments.
As we moved through the silence of another old basilica, something inside me changed—deeply and permanently. The walls I had built around my heart to protect myself against Dorian’s usual charm fell apart unexpectedly. A flood of emotions came through: admiration, pain, and a growing, undeniable love.
Had I really fallen for Dorian Gray? In the shadow of the divine, surrounded by the echoes of saints and sinners, I realized that my path was not just alongside Dorian but deeply connected with the mystery and redemption he seemed to offer. In the dim light of that last church, it became clear that my journey was now intertwined with his, a quest not just of the heart, but of the soul.
Dearest,
Here you are, exactly where you’re meant to be, shining in your achievements and overcoming every challenge, excelling in what you do—your efforts are not in vain. Reflect on this: twenty years from now, you will be enveloped in happiness, surrounded by dreams once distant but now real enough to touch, feel, kiss, and cherish. You’ll have made it, despite all the challenges.
Lost beneath the vast skyline of this imposing city, I often feel diminished, yet my dreams stretch vast above me, larger than the towering structures that cage the horizon
This city, sprawling and wild, is the dreamscape I yearned to conquer, and each night I wander its labyrinthine streets—the city of love—not fearing missteps. I’ve often felt adrift, no guide to steer me, navigating through life on instinct alone. I’ve learned in solitude, the lessons harsh and unyielding. Do I know everything? At times, it seems I know nothing at all. My childhood was a quiet storm, subtly corrosive, with an undercurrent of unresolved tensions and unspoken grievances. This familial tempest taught me the contours of love—not through presence, but through its poignant absence, shaped my early perceptions of love and belonging, pushing me further into the embrace of ephemeral pleasures as a refuge.
Chaos has been a companion so tomorrow’s stress just lights my heart, I don’t feel stress anymore. Yet here I am, still standing, still fighting.
Love, before you, my life was an odyssey of hedonistic pursuits, much like Dorian Gray’s—a relentless search for pleasure, an attempt to fill the void with fleeting delights. Yet, in your presence, everything shifted. You became my home, the first place I didn’t want to flee from. In you, I found peace, a tranquility so profound that even my inner demons recoiled and retreated. Your smile, your eyes, your intellect, your heartfelt kindness, and your undiluted talent—every aspect of you enchanted me, pulling me towards a transformative and deep love.
You were entirely unlike anyone I had ever encountered; I craved your experiences, your life. But why did you seek mine?
As I pen this under the eternal gaze of naked Rome, where every stone can say of ancient loves and tragedies, I must confess a painful truth. Our paths, so beautifully intertwined, must soon diverge. The same winds that brought me to your side are now calling me away, to journeys anew and alone. This parting, though laden with sorrow, is as necessary as the breaths we draw; for my presence, like a shadow at dusk, must fade with the setting sun, leaving you illuminated by the light of your own dawn.
In this city laid bare, where history strips down to its very bones, I find myself laying bare my own soul to you. Rome, in all her raw, unveiled glory, mirrors our love—a love as haunting and as beautiful as the city’s twilight. Yet, like Rome, which has seen empires rise and fall, I must now step away from the empire we built together, leaving you amidst the ruins of what could have been—a legacy of love that will endure of time and fate.
“Love never dies of starvation, but often of indigestion”
Forever yours in the shadows and the light,
Dorian Gray
In the dimly lit chambers of his sprawling Milan townhouse, Dorian Gray lounged languidly, the shimmering light of numerous candles casting an eerie glow on his angelic features. His guests, a curated assembly of the city’s most extravagant souls, meandered through rooms filled with unusual items and the intoxicating haze of various drugs. The smell of spices and the soft sounds of secret conversations filled the air.
As the evening wore on, Dorian’s attention settled on a newcomer, a young woman with eyes as clear as the crystal flutes from which they drank their endless champagne.
Her innocence was almost palpable, like a fresh canvas, and it drew him with the irresistible pull of a moth to flame. He approached her, his movements graceful, almost predatory.
“I am gonna treat you like a doll,” he said softly, his voice low and enticing as they stood secluded by a heavy velvet curtain.
“What?” she replied, a mix of confusion and intrigue playing across her delicate features.
“Shh, dolls don’t speak,” Dorian whispered, pressing a finger against her lips. His eyes gleamed with a dangerous intensity, showing a dark side shaped by years of too much pleasure.
The night deepened, and with it, the debauchery escalated. Dorian, ever the orchestrator of his own amusements, facilitated encounters that blurred the lines between freedom and bondage. To the untrained eye, his guests reveled in the liberty to explore their darkest desires, yet this freedom was a meticulously crafted illusion. Each choice they made was a step further into dependence on him.
In a corner, Dorian had set up a place to smoke weed, with soft cushions and pipes going from hand to hand - a gift from Dorian’s personal stock.
Here, under the haze of drug-induced euphoria, the guests lost more than just their inhibitions, they lost pieces of themselves, small sacrifices to their host’s unspoken power.
Dorian watched them from his shadowed alcove, a contented smile playing upon his lips. He prided himself on his intelligence, on the cunning with which he played this game of society. Each person here was a pawn, a beautifully broken creature caught in his web. The power he wielded was not just in the wealth he possessed or the eternal youth he flaunted, but in his profound understanding of human nature and its weaknesses.
As dawn threatened the sanctuary of his home, Dorian went to his private study, a room untouched by the chaos of the night. Here, surrounded by old books, love letters and poems for his lovers, he thought about his exciting life. His life, a tapestry of experiences that would horrify a lesser man, was his alone to command. He remained untouchable, a God amongst mortals ensnared in their own frailties.
Yet, as his thoughts wandered back to the young woman from earlier, a twist of emotion gripped him. Her innocence, so pure and untainted, had not merely been a lure for his darker inclinations.
She represented the one true love of his life, the only one who had ever threatened to pierce the armor of his soul. It was the most innocent people who were the most dangerous. Drawn by the allure of the opposite, they were willing to try, to explore, to open themselves to sins they had never known. Her curiosity and openness to the darker facets of life made her both irresistible and perilous. In her pursuit of the forbidden, she had the power to unravel him completely. Suddenly, his gaze was drawn to his coat, where delicate butterflies had alighted, nibbling at the fine fabric.
He watched, transfixed, as their fragile wings fluttered, destroying the very thing that had drawn them.In this silent tableau, Dorian saw a reflection of his own existence: a being of beauty and cruelty, drawing others in only to consume and ruin them. The cruel beauty of their destruction was, after all, his life’s true masterpiece.
Dear Diary,
I had always been drawn to the mysterious and the extraordinary, and in Dorian Gray, I found both. He was not just a man, he was a legend wrapped in an enigma, hero and perfection I was looking for, cloaked in the allure of genius beauty and secret tales of endless nights filled with revelry and decadence. To me, Dorian was a window to a world I had only dreamed of—a world filled of desires and profound knowledge, each day with him a journey through the depths of my inner self.
From the moment we met, Dorian was kind to me. He took me under his wing, showing me the hidden corners of the world. We walked through “private art collections, hidden libraries, and secret societies where the normal rules did not apply”. Under his guidance, I learned languages I had never heard before, discussed philosophy and art with some of the most brilliant minds of our time.
But being with Dorian was not without its trials. His past was a tapestry of both splendor and darkness, and the deeper I ventured into his world, the more I saw the shadows that clung to him. I heard the whispers of his misdeeds, saw the wary glances thrown our way, and felt the weight of his reputation as a man untouched by time yet burdened by a lifetime.
Despite the opulence that surrounded us, there was an undercurrent of melancholy in Dorian that I could not ignore. I witnessed moments when his laughter did not quite reach his eyes, and his smiles were tinged with something akin to regret. As I grew to understand him, I saw the burden he carried, the price of his immortality, and the loneliness of someone who had seen the cruel world.
It was in these moments of vulnerability that my love for Dorian deepened. I found beauty not in the perfect facade he presented to the world, nor in the radiant charm of his visage, but in his flaws. I saw the beauty in the grotesque—the twisted roots of his being that grounded him in the earthy, dark soil of human experience. His weaknesses, his fears, and the genuine moments of self-doubt were what made him truly beautiful to me.
Our journey together was not an easy one, but it was profoundly meaningful. I helped Dorian see that his life, though my eyes. I showed him love. My presence was a reminder that he has to live in the moment more than his past or in stressful future.
The most profound beauty often lies hidden beneath the surface, waiting to be recognized and cherished in all its imperfect glory.
Forever yours, - K.
“I love you, but I’m not in love with you anymore,” Dorian’s words echoed through the empty spaces of my heart, a chilling sentence that fractured the illusion of perfection we had crafted together. Dorian had loved the idea of us, the mirage of what could be. It was the thrill of the chase, the beauty of the conquest that had captivated him, not the deep, enduring affection I craved. His love was a vivid portrait painted in fleeting strokes, brilliant yet ephemeral.
As he spoke, my heart stuttered to a halt, a painful throb resonating in my chest as if the strings that held it together were being pulled apart.
The finality in his voice was unmistakable, a clear sign that what we had was irrevocably broken. It was the moment I realized I had lost not just his love but the entire world we had built—a world of love, illusion, and seemingly perfect affection.
In a desperate attempt to reclaim what was once mine, I found myself running through the rain back to Dorian. The cold droplets mixed with my tears, blurring the city lights into a luminous haze. I stood at his door, my heart pounding in my ears, begging him to let me in. His voice, full of pain and resolve, cut through the stormy night. “Run away! Get out of here!” he shouted from the other side.
I could hear the torment in his voice, a man confronting his demons, seeing no escape from the shadows that clung tightly to his soul. He never opened the door.
Walking away, the rain washed over me like a baptism into a new existence, my tears indistinguishable from the downpour. Crystal tears glistened on my cheeks, a stark reminder of what was lost. As I wandered, a shimmer in the darkness caught my eye—a mysterious man talking with a girl, his demeanor exuding an enigmatic charm. His style was remarkable, each detail meticulously in place, a curious reflection of what Dorian had once been to me.
“Such a remarkable style,” I said as I approached him, my voice steady despite the storm within. He blushed, taken aback by the sudden attention. Seizing the moment, I invited him to sit with me, pulling him into a realm of conversation and subtle enchantment. As we talked, I realized I was weaving the same seductive allure that Dorian had mastered—the art of drawing someone into a deep dream, a world crafted from charisma and mystery.
Our conversation flowed effortlessly, each word a thread in the tapestry of an emerging connection. His laughter, nervous yet sincere, resonated with a familiar charm.
I saw in his eyes a mix of curiosity and vulnerability, a reflection of what I once felt in Dorian’s presence. This young man was captivated, drawn into a web spun with delicate intricacy.
I realized I had become a weaver of dreams, a creator of illusions tailored to captivate and entice. There was no escape from this pattern, an endless loop of seeking and finding, of captivating and eventually letting go. The allure of the forbidden and the thrill of the unknown started to resonate deeply within me. The hidden corners of society became my playground, and I embraced the same opulent lifestyle, reveling in its splendor and shadows.
As I sat there, engaging the young man with tales and insights, I embraced the role I had inadvertently adopted, a role once played by Dorian. The realization was bittersweet, a reflection of the intricate dance between beauty and sorrow, freedom and entrapment. The charm, the enigma, the carefully crafted allure—I had stepped into the very essence of what Dorian once represented to me.
In the echo of Dorian’s past and the mirror of my future, I found a haunting beauty—a beauty born from the depths of human complexity and the inevitable dance with our own shadows.
The delicate balance of light and darkness, the intertwining of charm and melancholy—it was a realization that captivated and terrified me in equal measure. This cycle, this endless dance, was now a part of my own existence, and in its complexity, I found a profound and haunting beauty.
The most transformative love stories are the ones that hold up a mirror, revealing truths about our deepest selves.
In gloom where murmurs and vanities play, Dwelt a heart like a mirror, Dorian Gray. His beauty, unmarred, a facade so bright, Maschera perfetta, concealing his night.
Beneath velvet touch and a charming smile, Secrets lurked in corridors of deceit.
Promesse dolci flowed from his lips, But amore’s truth was often obscured.
He danced through the days, a spectre in sun, Where the paint and the canvas remained pristine. In his eyes, like the stars, a tormented glow, Of a soul that had bartered its warmth for a show.
Night butterflies, drawn to the allure of his coat so blue, Nibbling silently, their hunger a quiet lament. In the gloom they fluttered, secrets they knew, Eating away at the fabric, as obscurity grew.
Enshrouded in mists of vapor and smoke, A refuge in gloom, his silent cloak. The crutch of the night, his comfort in haze, Lost in the labyrinth, a numbing maze.
In Rome, the city of eternal love, He whispered his passions beneath stars above. “I love you,” he said, as the fountains sang, A moment of bliss, a poignant pang.
Faint echoes of discord from walls once familiar, Subtle scars borne, not outwardly visible.
A family’s murmurs, softly destructive, Interwoven through his tapestry, tightly tucked.
Threads of power, tightly wound, His grip on control, profoundly absolute. Seeking dominion over hearts so tender, A master of masks, a concealed pretender.
Inside his heart, a plea for love pure, Longing for care, unconditional and sure. A good soul masked, by his own art, Yearning for a savior to mend his part.
Perfect in form, yet living in disarray, Adored universally, no matter the play.
Yet those he loves, he must forsake, For in the arms of the feigned, his heart can’t wake.
He promised me love, an eternal refrain, Drawing me close, then yielding to pain. A puppeteer’s grace, so masterfully played, I was his marionette, in gloom swayed.
The passion, a tempest, fierce as it fades, For beneath the luster were honed blades. As the portrait would darken, so did our tale, With each whispered ‘ti amo,’ more ashen, more pale.
Until one dusk, with courage amassed, I saw through the artifice, clear at last. His love was a ghost, from a tempest torn, A facade of a man, forlorn and worn.
Yet I’ll cherish him still, as he is, I’ll abide, In a tale where even shadows must die. A lesson of heart, under Italy’s sky, That even a Dorian, in true love, might lie.