daisy chains

whatever works (14)

there's one thing i like in this sweaty, busy, chaotic city.

it's the feeling of rolling around in a king sized bed and looking at the morning rays of sunlight flitting through the ceiling long windows.

it reminds me of paris. The city, its inescapable landscape. The girl, our shared apartment with a similar sized bed, and lips that were as good at kissing as they were at knitting words together to form perfect sentences.

Though I try to convince myself that i hardly ever thinks of paris these days. She's a lost memory of a romanticized past. I see her only through rose tinted filters and often always accompanied by the bitter taste of regret in the back of my mouth.

Anyway, even without paris, some say my bed is far from empty.

I've seen myself on more billboards than i prefer, and this has not only opened doors to higher income, but also a wider array of shapeless lovers.

fig likes to sketch them out dramatically, though his list is shorter than the one I keep in a corner of my mind, and i like it that way.

there's a man, with short legs and leather jackets which crinkle and evoke a dangerous tug of sexual frustration. His kisses are rough, almost desperate, as though he was certain our first kiss would also be our last. I thought i  could love him, but my growing fear of monogamy led us to dissolve all shared sentiments concerning love and harmony.

there was the case of the two girls, though one arrived before the other, the three of us quickly became inseparable. I thought, well, this must be it. The sharing of one another, the constant adventure. We hardly ever got bored of one another. One was blonde, and the other was a brunette. I loved to see the colors of their hairs twist together. My bed was the warmest during that time. But then the blonde married a man, the brunette married a woman, and I was left reminded that love was only favored when it happened between two people.

when monogamy seemed terrifying, and polygamy seemed fleeting, then i embarked on a quest to see how many people i could share my bed with. An homage to Casanova, as fig liked to call it.

when work at the studio ceased before midnight, i grasped the opportunity to scour the city for a pair of lips to end the night. this meant visiting every bar or club in the near vicinity, so much and so carelessly that i was the feature on the first page of many tabloids. I was a slut, apparently. for wanting to fill a deep pit in my psyche. I had an empty well to fill up with affection.

but this works, i would argue to no one in particular. It wasn't exactly a secret that i had deep rooted issues when it came to loyalty.

though loyal i am when it concerns mr. Jackson. And so i remained on his show for years. fig became a close friend, and we may have had too many drinks together, too many trips on too many drugs. Mr. Jackson thinks we are as thick as thieves, but I think we're not quite there yet.

i was worried that leaving the show would mean no longer seeing the lanky man with pin stripped suits and a scar across the bridge of his nose. but he still calls me darlin', and we meet up in large cities, always for a cup of hot chocolate.