Paris is burning, I'm cold
On my nightstand, a half full bottle of plum wine. Not half empty, not today. Chloè next to be, blond hair covering the pillow, her freckles resembleing the eifeltower if you look at her with eyes wearing glasses of imagination. Like a child she slept, eyelashes moving to insure me that she was dreaming. I wish I could flee into her dreams. I never dream, but then again I barely sleep. I just go unconsious.
With the plum wine in one hand, I sat down in the window - opened my mouth and placed yet another cigarette between my bruised and torn lips. Evidence of lost love. And now I'm telling you, I must be the biggest clichè ever and for that I apologize.
6 comments:
I don't think you need to apologiz, and i don't think you are a cliche.
you write beautifully by the way.
In no way are you a cliche.
You're beautifully unique, and I look up to you for that :)
We're all cliches sometimes. But only in the small ways that don't matter. You are no cliche.
That picture (on the right, from the balcony) can't be Los Angeles, is it? I can't place where it could possibly be if it is.
you are not a clicé, no way.
sorry for being a bad blogger friend lately, but I am a mess...
have a lovely week, xoxo
BAH! If your writing and expression is anything to go by (and it is, in my opinion) you are not cliche...
darling, how much I've missed your writing. This, this is what I've ached for.
xo, sophia
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