A stack of books and piles of papers. French doors. White curtains. Milky coffee. Hair that goes on and on and on.
Listening to Blondie does not make you edgy.
Your hand, his hand. I couldn't tell anymore.
Your cool indifference never seemed so practiced. Pretty young things like you stand, waving glowing embers in the semi-darkness and hurling hyena cackles at the cars that pass. You’re too uncovered to keep it in. Your regrowth, your too-white thighs, you grin and bare it all. Oh dear. Mascara never looked so much like liquid eyeliner.
'Hollow and glamorous. It was ironic really, the way she took in cigarettes as though her life depended on it. She was a perfect mix of contradictions. How she managed to pull off those red, sequined stilettos with even half the grace she did is still beyond me. Vulgar and gorgeous all at once. She carried men like handbags, on the arm and never the heart. The way I remember her changes a little every time. She's always on the balcony though. It is always twilight and it always the tiny glowing end of the smoke in her hand that makes her real. It was too easy to confuse her with the images on the wall. '
Things fell apart, he left with a suitcase you couldn't fit inisde. He took you anyway.
It was harder to look up to you then. Mostly I stayed behind half closed doors.
The glass was half empty. The milk was out of date.
You sit with your cigarette [why is that image so inextricably linked to you?] and your blossoming Moleskine playing Peter Sarstedt over again.
Dangerously close to your edge. I dangle with chipped nails and jagged teeth, clawing at nothing.
Gravity will let me down when you do. Again.
