je ne sleep pas.
The sounds come at night when the city sleeps, in whispers and in long, desperate gasps from the furnace. The thick open windows waver and slam and shout sporadically through the night. It rains more in Paris than in London, but no one ever mentions that, even when it pours. Rain spills over the city in a slow and steady murmur, hushing through the streets into darkness.The carpet is crushed like velvet and the leather bound soul crinkled and rough and rich and wilted in the damp moisture of the air curling under out of place ruined softened melted wasted peeling layer after layer toward the untouchable core. Love smells warm, and clean, and old, and sad and sad and something's always missing in the memories you can't remember but can't forget. I put up a patch and crossed it out, or maybe inserted it now, a lie. Truth is no more palpable than sugar slipping in and through the cracks between my fingers, and time touches the skin but for an instant. Now. Then ceases to exist. All that is is a word, ink dissolving at the touch and falling back into the page the way we live, one drop at a time, words behind us fading quickly as they chase us to the tip. And how we run from them, from the heat on our backs, devouring the blank space ahead like wildfire.