He's in front of the mirror getting ready like it's our first date and we're sixteen dans La Ville-Lumière. I finish his Champagne because he's too busy with his hair and he returns to an empty bottle. "I like you better drunk" he says and slides his hand up my dress, but he does it like a gentleman in cufflinks and a pinstripe suit.
The last days of this
year have felt like the end of the world, but I guess they always do. My
vision is blurred, I can't imagine anything beyond December but with
him there's no immediate need to pretend. Walking these streets in
daylight I feel like screaming till the air in my lungs is
wasted, but when the sun sets I put on something black and he comes home
and we drift away together, even after what he said to me a week or so
I don't drink to forget because there's still too much I
want to remember. I drink because the world and this life we're living
makes a little bit more sense when spinning itself out of focus before
our pale blue eyes.