Paris

Paris.

There is no one outside my window. No one ringing my number. They have decided to forget. They have all better places to be. Better lovers. Better moments without me.

I had hoped for more. And that’s exactly what I received. More. More emptiness. More loneliness. More and more.

The toilet’s water will run forever, if I don’t go back to check on it. I must wriggle the handle to bring it back in line. Still, no one to wriggle mine.

Now I sit on the couch and drink water from a can. Cactus from a bottle. Smoke leaves wrapped in paper between my fingers. I eat the candy and goldfish whole.

There are no young ladies to kiss. No sweetly painted toes. No A cups with tiny tight pink nipples.

I am free. Free as a balloon that’s slipped through a child’s perfect little fingers.

The music no longer moves me. I haven’t broken a good sweat in years. There haven’t been a salty-sweet set of lips under my tongue in an eternity.

The sun runs away earlier and earlier at the end of each summer day. The sky is orange. Purple. Pink. And I can still smell her hair in my face. Breath of whiskey, cigarettes and watermelon lip gloss.

Pink is my favorite color. I think it has been from the start. And Paris is calling me home. I am eager to answer, despite how much I hate to fly.

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About magnumturtle

I write fiction.
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