Bonjour ma chèrie

Woke up with sun teasing my face, like it was telling me to get up and welcome it, like it felt it deserved. Me sleeping was in insult to a beautiful day dawning. I obeyed. Who am I to say no to the Paris sun? Is anyone entitled to that? Stroke the hair in my eyes to the sides, like a curtain that tried to shut it out but wasn't thick enough. Got out of my dress that smelled like cigarettes, plum wine and decadence. Like last night. Chloé was nowhere to be seen I realized after wandering the entire apartment with drunken steps. Poured some coffee and placed myself in the kitchen, said god morning to the eifeltower and found her note

Chérie,
petit déjeuner pour deux,
à tout de suite.
Ensemble c'est tout!
Biz C

Now thats love in four simple sentences. She knows me.

This one is for you

I carried a gun in my Chanel 2.55 once. A boy I liked left it in my apartment and I didn't want it there since it took my breath away everytime my eyes met it and not in a newly inlove kind of way. It apeared in my dreams at night, it controlled my thoughts so I gently folded some silk around it, put it down carefully and walked with determinded steps to the thames late one night with stars as my witnesses and droped it into the dark and forgiving water. The moon turned black for a split second and my heart stopped, then he returned and all was well. My bag was easy to carry again, and my feet had broken loose from their concrete foundation that they'd walked around with before. But now I miss it. It was a beautiful piece, something to put on top of a pile of books. The weight is incredible.

But it's gone, much like the boy I once liked. But Paris, loyal and beautiful Paris is still here and so is Chloè with her loving eyes.

A love letter sent to late

Paris called, and I answered with a hungry voice. I was just about starving when the sweet smell of croissants, macaroons and perfect café au lait filled me entierly with its warm and comforting sent. Chloé held me close, took my bag and told her driver to take us to a dark bar as fast as he could. Ten minutes later, dress change in the car and heels on, we were sipping perfect plum wine and wearing masks. Men came and went away again when we didn't respond to their bonsoir. We had eyes for each other only. Laugher lived next door to tears, in the same zip code as disaster and we loved with our hearts beating like one that night.

I'm sorry I left you all without a word, without a trace but sometimes my words run out. Like the hot water in Chloés apartment. And then you have no choice but to stay warm with wine and red pall malls instead. I hope you understand. But I've gathered some strength here while walking the streets of Paris. I wish I could have brought you all with me.

high flying bird

I guess that wasn't a new girlfriend I nearly whispered and swallowed down the taste of my uncomfortable question with black coffe, looked at him over the breakfast table and smiled carefully.

Paris is burning darling, the opium is running out just like the oil and soon we will all have to face what we've done to this planet we call home and what we've done to our souls. There are no records anymore worth buying. People can't spell and they don't use real words, it's all lol there and wtf here like those letters actualy has some value when put togheter. They slaughter the greatness that used to be the kings english and call it modern so please just pass the juice darling, he said and poured it into his gin.

I lit a cigarette, exhaled the smoke over my plate of pancakes and put my hand on his.

And besides, my heart beats for two girls. Thats enough to make it wanna burst with love he ends this bisar discussion with. And I wish I hadn't asked to begin with.

On such a timeless flight

In the middle of the night, with stars above me and my legs in the pool I sat quietly listening to my morning jackets version of Rocket man and I'm gonna be high as a kite by then sipping gin on the rocks. And then I saw her. Long dark hair with soft curls, a black dress touching the ground as she walked fast out from our house and into her car. She looked in the mirror and wiped away what I can only assume was tears under her eyes, or maybe it was dust and drove off. With the wind in her hair, a cigarette that left traces in the air and those lips that carried a colour of red wine - she looked like a heroine. Like someone who could take on the world. But that night she wouldn't.

She reminded me of myself. I washed away that disturbing thought with several large sips and dove into the pool. Cleansing myself.

So what if you'll catch me, where would we land?

There's no salvation for sinners like us.

We might as well be strangers

It's hard trying to compose something about how you feel, when feelings are new to you. Since I entered Lalaland I've been somewhat clear in my head, the haze from my pills have been absent which has shed a new light on everything. Making me experience things, for real and not from a distance. And that's both beautiful and awful.

When someone asks me how I really feel, I never have an answer for them. I rarely talk about emotions which might seem like a paradox to you, but there's an enormous difference in writing here and actualy saying the words out loud. I hide behind metaphores and song lyrics, photos and anger. I don't talk about what I write, I don't write like I talk. This right here, my words on a silly webpage is the most real I have ever been in my entire life. I think you know me more than I want to admit, I've invited you all into my dark and troubled mind and you always have love in your words when you write back, so I'm trying not to climb back into the cage where I used to put all my thoughts and emotions, I'm trying to take the open and honest Belle into to real world. Thing is, I'm scared. Everyone I've ever let in has left. But you haven't.

Some men should talk

Those years between my birth and the first time I met Frank were years of silence. Mother had no answers for me, at least she kept them a secret and still does but I did receive one letter and I still have that with me. It was short, one page filled with trivial sentences about life and making choices. I was a child, I didn't understand. Still don't. But we don't talk about the silence, that would complicate the co existense that we both seem to enjoy. He makes me dinner sometimes, takes me out for walks and comes home with dresses in sizes to big but I still wear them, I like the feeling of fabric falling of my body as I move.

I used to keep that letter under my pillow for several years and then moved it to my wallet, folded a hundred times. I read those tired words ten times a day, trying to picture him, trying to get to know him. It felt like chasing a shadow, trying to hold on to thin air, dancing with wolfs. One letter in six years. Who says I'm demanding? He could get away with anything. I still put him on a pedistal. The man with black tshirts and wayfarers, he stole my heart as a kid.

It could have been so perfect

He managed to get my number somehow. Called and I actualy answered, with my mouth filled with plum wine and cigarette smoke. The house was empty so I told him to come over, but the possibility of crossing paths with his friend, my father figure frightened him so I wrapped my body in a black silk dress and he picked me up with a silly smile painted on his face.

Hotel beds, oh how I've missed them. The white sheets makes everything feel so much better, the dimmed lights and the minibar. His nails pierced my skin, made little marks all over and my teeth left evidence on his shoulders of what the last couple of hours had been about. Afterwards, in a haze of red wine and cigarette smoke he looks at me with concern in his eyes How much weight have you lost since I last saw you?

I stormed off, with black silk wipping my legs as I ran through the hallway in heels that weren't ment to be worn when movement was planed. He had no right to talk to me like that. He had no right talking at all. Why don't men ever know when it's time to shut the fuck up..

I think there's a storm coming, there's something in the air.

step by step, heart to heart

I write to little, think to much. It's like the words are trapped inside of me, caged in the insecurities I posses, and they can't get out. They're starved and light sensitive after such a long time in the dark and their steps are careful and slow.

An airplane took my best friend away, sent her through the air and landed her far away from the sun. It's selfish of me to wish she lived here, it doesn't suit her (does it suit me?) but I want her close, at all times. On my nightstand lays two blue pills. When ever life gets to rough, she will save me from a distance. On the airport, when I grabbed her hands and stroke some hair from her face she gave me a book, Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens. I've spent the last days with it and bottles of plum wine on the attic, smoking camel blues and feeling sorry for myself. But I'm done now, I feel like taking a walk. Tears always seem to dry on their own don't they. And Sara did make me laugh a little last friday when she hit the ceiling with her head trying to dance on a table. She's fantastic. And wild.

Bisous