Painful. Years later, it's still painful and unusual. He'll probably never really be able to accept it. Over the past time, he manages to get used to the idea that it will never be the same as before.

He is angry at himself and at you, who continues to hold a part of his heart in hands and unknowingly influence his life. And nobody dares to dispose Nikki fucking Sixx life without his consent.

Every time at the beginning of the tour, the heart pulls unpleasantly, and melancholy descends on a black night. More anger comes to replace it.

With desperate stubbornness, he proves that he can. Can in America. In Africa. In Europe. Asia and Australia. On the second circle for fixing. He can all over the world. Can without the damn you. Without a voice and without dyed hair even.

But again, you're standing on the threshold, leaning your shoulder against the door frame and crossing your arms over chest. Already almost calm and understanding. Nikki doesn't understand himself as well as you do him. Indeed, his better half. Sixx wants to tear his gaze away from your face, but some unknown force holds back, leaving him chained to large and expressive eyes and the same lips. How many women have kissed them? He can't count it. And the men? The same thing.

You hypnotize without putting the slightest effort into it. The bangs that had strayed, as if from a gust of wind, the defiantly exposed thigh with a chain hanging on it. And the expectant, patient look. Like a jaguar hunting. And Nikki throws the guitar aside, unable to hold that gaze. "What the fuck do you want?"