003; the fall of troy [ flickrfic ]
credit: panini_ @ flickr.com
the fall of troy
photobooth ; death cab for cutie
original prose ; 21st century helen of troy
you were so condescending, and this is all that's left:
hey helen
where have you gone and where are you now
is it sunny where you are, does it rain, does it snow
i've heard paris is for lovers, is it true? am i missing out
do i need to pack a bag -
get my coat and a bottle of water and the mess of keys that always jingled in your purse when you came home
and let me know through walls so thin when you waltzed in
(except now only i use it, a sparkle of noise to myself,
a triumph of life, alone, because
well
you're gone)
- and go? should i come rescue you
be your man in a clanky suit
with my briefcase and my politics, sheaves of paper
do you need me there, do you?
does it ever hail in paris, does god cry tears solidified to stone
and crystal glass and sand
are you scratched and dinged from the pebbles in the sky
on their way down? are you bandaged and torn
what about the streets, helen, are they cobblestone and romance?
are your small feet sore, do they bleat at night when you sit down to your table lamp
- or is it candle, wax and aroma - and baguette, pinot noire in hand
(or do you still drink my favorite
a bottle of gin
splotchy and splashed on the pavement
backs of the hand wiping it away
brown paper bag)
are you ever lonely, helen, do you ever stare
through cast-iron glows from the white sun windows, out at the people
you do not understand, (because you slept
through all your french courses last winter
and only passed because i paid off the professor) when their tongues spill curls
and their smiles project gray
and all you find with yourself is a hand through the tangles in your brown,
brown hair
and a pane of glass
am i wrong?
i confess
i confess i know nothing of the vous-le-vous, parles-francais, those prima ballets
nothing of how it's pulled you in, gained you as a gravitational orb around it's eiffel tower spin
you don't even own a single monogrammed suitcase, helen
only my canvas knapsacks, my khaki duffels with wheels home-sewn
how do you expect to fit in?
do you even find the clothes ill-fitting, helen? do they hang off your frame
white lace drab, black tulle droop, do they seem to die on your back
do the jewels dim in light of your eyes?
paris is for lovers, helen, (but it will never love you)
i've looked up a few reports and i know it's cold, (i do)
the parisians we've met are too uptight (you know it too)
and return trips cost but nickels and dimes (it's true)
hey helen, do you still know your way home?
i'll be on our old brown couch
scruffy, unkempt, and probably in the same clothes you left me in
watching the door
listening for keys
(even though i have them.)
forever yours,
menelaus
dear stalker,
i would very so appreciate
if
you would fuck off
and leave me alone.
send in the troops if you will
the cavalry, the parade
don't forget the horses, you might as well
because otherwise,
i am
staying
here.
sincerely,
helen
...i've packed a change of clothes and it's time to move on.
_____________________
1 ; 2 ; 3/14-day flickrfic challenge.