(What Would Brendan Fraser Do?)
So you walk along the Rue de Turenne and think about life
as the rain gets caught up in your eyelashes and you feel all alone.
Well, this sucks. You were feeling fine until the cosmos decided to
mix things up and a strike of iPod intervention brought you
Chelsea Hotel No. 2 and now you can’t stop remembering
the last time you saw him
and the pain that you feel deep in your chest thinking about how he doesn’t think
You wonder what he’s doing now, and pictures of him
happy and laughing with some pretty blonde girl with a tiny IQ and a year-round
tan pass through your mind and you can’t help but imagine them
making love and you squeeze your face up as hard as you can
as if physical force could cleanse your mind.
His golden smile, his limbs, like honey.
Her, not you.
You shake yourself and realise that he’s probably just having
an argument with his sister, or taking a shit, or sitting on the metro reading
Franny and Zooey (god, you hope he isn’t doing that, it’s your favourite book),
or maybe he’s studying, he always did work hard.
The Sorbonne saint with sunflower eyes, toiling away as if he didn’t see
that he was a divine being who existed beyond the realm of mortal pains, at least
to you anyway. Cat Stevens comes on, and you step in a puddle and sigh. God,
who do you think you are, stepping in puddles
and sighing and listening to Cat Stevens? Life is not a movie. This is not
a montage. You are not Meg Ryan and he is sure as hell not Tom Hanks
(Jesus, can you imagine?). So you switch off your self-pity and walk down the
metro steps, tripping only once and when you make it to the carriage just in time
you realise that maybe life is okay if only you try to stay numb forever,
so you close your eyes and scratch your hand and
wonder what you will have for dinner.
old flames - frankie cosmos