Paris is yearning

Mastering the heart of the Frenchman I mean art of the French pin, thinking it's because i'm fat, isn't it.

I’ve got to the part of the trip where I can’t look at my body anymore in the bathroom mirror.

And I’m drinking a lot (though am I ever not) and eating my feelings, which really just means the entire baguette in one sitting, and in between meals - mastering the heart of the Frenchman I mean art of the French pin. Yes, with this hair. Whilst living in French people’s ceilings.

I’ll wake up to Tems and as she suggests I’ll try again that day to make ice tea with his lemons, before stumbling into Partisan where I’ll greet the barista with my eyes and respond telepathically with a yes, i’ve been crying. Insert a gallery and, or hours of mostly aimless wandering; an outside drink and then ending it inside opening bottles of wine with my fingers. (No budget left for bottle openers, comment below if you’d like me to demonstrate).

Almost certain I’m being let down easy - on top of suddenly fuller-figured - you can only go figure how I’m feeling. The difference being that he’s been texting me through it.

Ofcourse I’m thinking it’s because I’m fat, isn’t it. Even though I’ve just lost 15kg fucking kilograms. And ugly. Because my smile is too gummy. Because I don’t wear undies - I knew it. Honestly. How did I just go again from how did I get so lucky to being slept on, and wondering how this guy can just let me walk around Paris alone? In the time since getting back from Italy.

And because of this but in spite of my budget, I’ll still feed myself whatever I want this week. Even if that is just chips, wine and cheese from Carrefour Cave. Countless cigarettes. Reminding myself to clean as I go with each ménage à un because, you know.. Though if I do end up spiralling remembering that I’ve been okay before and I’ll be okay again.

Though what I didn’t know was that we’d never see each other again.

He really did expect me to fuck off after feeding me his fathers’ jam. After I found it in myself to forgive for the reed diffuser in his bathroom first. Then the future talk, and all of the dried flowers. Istanbul being his favourite city? Not to mention the Club Mate which I expect no one to understand, but maté as in the drink and my ‘most irrational fear’ (if you know what i mean) turned code word for boundary, after years of surviving Byron Bay quite possibly. It was at this point I knew God had to be fucking with me. Ridiculous, yes but also too much of a coincidence in a world where I believe there not to be any.

And only for the sake of not dragging the guy entirely - lastly, the declaration he’d never eat oysters in Paris because it was “too far from the sea.” That’ll do it. Or should have rather. Imagine my face. 🚩

And a little ashamedly, just not calling bullshit at the first mention of busy. Like I’m way too old and now obviously ugly for this. Why does this keep happening to me.

The Prophecy then became the soundtrack for the week and I’m honestly surprised no one from Spotify called to make a wellness check. But I too similarly feel as if I’ve done my time and have gone through and out the other side of loving myself and happy alone or whatever whoever’s watching is gonna need me to do and be, to the point where I don’t know how I’d actually fit someone in.

Something still tells me I need more than just self-love.

And whether or not it still makes for a good story and despite how quickly I recovered this time, the plot is draining me.

I long for couer over content. I’m curious to know if i can even create from a place of joy and happiness. I don’t trust that I can, regardless i’d still like to have a crack at it.

Though it has been said - a greater woman wouldn't beg - so I looked to the sky and simply said, “where is he.”

X