In black dresses, both touching the dirty parisian streets as we walked, we faced the city where everyone thinks their true love lives. Chloès illnes have gone from bad to worse, but she'll die if she stays inside anymore she said so we put lip stick on our torn lips, covered our bruises from the last time they met.
Plum wine, warm nights and cigarettes made us feel like something from an old movie. I'd say it was pretty perfect. As perfect as something ever gets before one starts analyzing. Starts to really think about whats going on. Why was Chloè wearing the same dress as me (she hates black)and why was here eyes seaking for a man (She hates men) And why did she, later on, walk into my room and kisses the man whose skin my nails were piercing
Nothing was perfect when I started to think, but I didn't untill now. Last night was perfect. But today, last night was awful.