Velvet sky with tiny, shimmering spots above our heads. Calm night. No traffic, no sound. Just us. He walks upon the bridge parapet. Laughing. I laugh too, though my heart is beating faster. He's drunk, we both are. It's not the epic hour so why wouldn't we be. He might fall, I know he won't but he could. Half a bottle of bourbon in his hand. The last one lays a few feet behind us, you can see the broken pieces reflect the streetlight. He looks at me, smiles and lands on the pavement right in front of me.
Don't worry love, I wouldn't leave you. Not now.
He'd seen the panic in my eyes. Can't camouflage it with a faked smile. Can't disguise it with bourbon. Not when you're body shiver, when you're fear are so thick you can almost touch it with your fingertips and your thoughts are so loud they might as well end up in a mind bubble above your head. Oh yes I'm predictable. Still, if those skinny legs, the sharp irregular shoulders and warm honey breath disappeared.. I'd be nothing. Nothing at all. Call it love, I call it need.
2011-01-28
there's no sugar in france
Today was a war. No soldiers, no weapons, no fire. Me against myself. It's very simple really, you just don't do it. You just don't put that kind of things in your mouth. You just don't put yourself in that position where it's available. But today I did, and so I had to fight it..
When I was a little girl I learned that the white crystals were no good for you. They existed only for you to hate them. It was my fathers french wife who taught me. She was the most beautiful woman, tall and slender. She never wore Chanel but I always imagined her as an aged model. Those tall legs were mostly captured in flats, but when she wore heels, she became the most compelling woman, she was a queen. Not only to my father but also to me. Her long dark hair, flying free in the wind. Her scent, filled my nostrils whenever she was around. She was the perfect mixture of bohemian and chic. A simple nod and you'd obey, still when she smiled at me - she filled me with pure happiness.
The memories of her are clear, like a framed picture on a wall in my mind, still I somehow try to cover them in fog. I shouldn't remember her as I do. There's too much pain, too much confusion, too much shame..
When I was a little girl I learned that the white crystals were no good for you. They existed only for you to hate them. It was my fathers french wife who taught me. She was the most beautiful woman, tall and slender. She never wore Chanel but I always imagined her as an aged model. Those tall legs were mostly captured in flats, but when she wore heels, she became the most compelling woman, she was a queen. Not only to my father but also to me. Her long dark hair, flying free in the wind. Her scent, filled my nostrils whenever she was around. She was the perfect mixture of bohemian and chic. A simple nod and you'd obey, still when she smiled at me - she filled me with pure happiness.
The memories of her are clear, like a framed picture on a wall in my mind, still I somehow try to cover them in fog. I shouldn't remember her as I do. There's too much pain, too much confusion, too much shame..
2011-01-26
another guitarfilled night
Late night yesterday, not enough sleep and way to much wine. I knew that the morning would be rough, Wednesdays are always early mornings. We stayed up and he played me tunes on his guitar. His curls fell down before his eyes when he leaned forward, he's so intense when he plays. His whole body kind of shakes a little bit. He concentrates and wrinkles his forehead.
We sat like that for hours, sometimes he glanced at me, a little smile, then he continued to play. Like all other nights, our guitar filled nights. After a bottle of wine, he starts to sing. Quietly. Almost whispering. After two bottles, he doesn't care anymore and his voice grow stronger, fills the room with every inch of him. If we continue, he'll take me in his arms and he tries to get me to play with him. But then I'm already too drunk..
When the guitar is asleep and there's nothing but silence we lay down. His bed, a mattress directly on the floor. Just enough room for us both. White smoke rise against the ceiling, candles are creating shadows on the walls. Normally I'd be scared and my imagination would fill my head with all sorts of weird hallucinations. The shadows are always a man with an umbrella. But with him, I feel more safe than ever. Maybe that's why I always fall asleep first when we share the same bed.
We sat like that for hours, sometimes he glanced at me, a little smile, then he continued to play. Like all other nights, our guitar filled nights. After a bottle of wine, he starts to sing. Quietly. Almost whispering. After two bottles, he doesn't care anymore and his voice grow stronger, fills the room with every inch of him. If we continue, he'll take me in his arms and he tries to get me to play with him. But then I'm already too drunk..
When the guitar is asleep and there's nothing but silence we lay down. His bed, a mattress directly on the floor. Just enough room for us both. White smoke rise against the ceiling, candles are creating shadows on the walls. Normally I'd be scared and my imagination would fill my head with all sorts of weird hallucinations. The shadows are always a man with an umbrella. But with him, I feel more safe than ever. Maybe that's why I always fall asleep first when we share the same bed.
2011-01-25
something new
The end of January. New year, new beginnings. Everybody's talking about change, improvement, goals. And even though we're never going to change, we still like the idea of it. To pretend to be willing to start over and get better makes us comfortable. It justifies our old sins. Still I like my old habits, I like my memories and I look back with no regret. Because I know, there's no change for me this year. Just like always.
Bienvenue chez moi
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