home is..

Back home. Felt an urgent need to be me. I left my french alter ego at the airport and with her, the smell of croissants, wine traces leading back to our front door, piles of champagne corks and the forehead kiss C gave me before walking out the door. I then called him and went over to his place, he was having a party tonight he explained. I thought, what place is better to be alive than in of those pictures.. Bodies moving to unheard lyrics, liquid levels shrinking outside, rising inside. Under control. I always carry around straws in my handbag.


Spent several hours staring in to the sun, next to his warm shadow, and when the sun fell asleep the candles continued to cause stains on my retinas..

last chance

it is cold. I am leaving. c forced my ankles to stay for an hour. too numb to feel the fire near my lips, too distracted to hear the screams. is this for real?


just like he sang - every gun you held went off, therefore I have to leave you know. meanwhile the others is counting your breaths, we were never enough..

paris says..

At a party. C is queen. In control, wearing silk, shimmering. All the girls wear clumsy wedges. Not a stiletto in sight. Where are we? Me, in control, in the corner, alone. Out on the floor - no control. 


A girl smokes golden cigarettes in the window sill. She painted them. I can see a little spot she missed, right next to her pinkie. That's right, she holds them between her pinkie and ring finger. 


A boy comes out from the kitchen with a silver tray. Foie gras and something that looks like flour. Does he want to brag? Does he live here? C walks up to him and says, with a british accent:
- That really looks like poop, referring to the foie gras. 
The boy looks offended. And so she is the center of attention. Who is the silk queen from far away? Poor boy.


Paris makes me scream. No need for the good-girl-charade. In the circle shaped room, in what corner can I hide? 

don't fucking tell me what to do

Paris is thrilling, noisy and forbidden. We have left the apartment and spent days and nights in the streets, bars, anonymous apartments et cetera.. C smiled twice yesterday, like really smiled. Inside out. Sincerely. It made me warm inside. Her family isn't too happy about having her running around like this - but she knows how to handle it. She might be thin as a stick but her mouth and fists can force anyone to do anything. Don't mess with the anorectics I learned yesterday..


Pont Mirabeau:
Breath regularly Aurélie, but small amounts of oxygen each time. Because they will make you pay for it. 


Few bottles of wine and suddenly she sees clear. You just have to love her. 

travel-pass

Packed my bags. Went to comfort C in another part of this world.. 


C has her own apartment. A deal made with her mother, some sort of growing up strategy - still she is living in the building next to her. The apartment is filled with mirrors in big, ancient golden frames. Ironic since C hates the image of herself. I walk through the spacious corridor that is the centre of her home. Enter the living room area. Everywhere I turn I can see notes up on the walls. C follows my eyes. Therapy thing, she mumbles. 


I traded one balcony for another. One love for another. We sit together, smoking. Not talking. No need of words. She holds her teacup with both hands, they have the same color as eggshells. Her hands that is. I observe. Her body trembles. But her hands are still. Her bruised collarbones, fragile smile expose her, she is not well. Yet, she is better than the last time I saw her. That makes me glad. 


We spend the morning on that balcony. Sharing cigarettes, a tea pot. In her company there is always too much smoking, never enough eating. It feels relieving though. A man is staring at us from his window across. C waves and gives him of one her juvenile smiles. It's the time, of the season, for loving..