(no subject)
Oh, Sophie
Oh, Sophie.
How lovely you look, walking down the grandeur of the boulevards as the light fades. How sad you look, wrapping your scarf a little tighter against the chill of the dying day. How lost you look, staring blankly at the autumn leaves that swirl down from the trees that line your path.
At twenty-six, walking to the Métro that will take you home, have you found what you were looking for? Have you found out what you were looking for? I remember how full of hope you were when you came here, to this city of love, just a few months ago. This side's grass was so much greener then, but surely you must've known that. Somewhere in your mind, there was that little nagging you ignored. And that's fair enough; that's fine. I couldn't have listened to it, either.
You look up into the soft rain drizzling from the sky, step into puddles, smiling grimly to yourself. Oh sure, your tongue flows effortlessly among the delicate vowels of your pain au chocolat at the boulangerie in the morning, but you still prefer tea with it: milk, no sugar. Where do you belong? Your coat is a picture of elegance, but walking down the street, you lack confidence in your step. Is this your home? Oh sure, your tongue flicks irresistibly over her skin as your naked bodies strain towards each other, but the loneliness you feel afterwards as you look at the thin blue veins on her pale, beautiful face is worse than the loneliness you felt when you were all alone.
For a moment, you feel like crying. In the rain, nobody would see your tears, but they seem too much effort and anyway, here you are now in the dry, warm underground station. The last emotions ebb away in the soothing hum of the Métro as you wait for your train; the orange countdown reads three minutes. There's not enough time to be upset.
Oh, Sophie. There's never enough time. Even at home, after dinner and the news on TV and running a wash, when you light a candle and pour yourself a glass of wine, even then you can't give in to feelings because there's another day to be got through tomorrow and you should be in bed, not staring at the walls.
Oh, Sophie. At twenty-six, is that all there is? Is that all there will be?
Oh, Sophie.
How lovely you look, walking down the grandeur of the boulevards as the light fades. How sad you look, wrapping your scarf a little tighter against the chill of the dying day. How lost you look, staring blankly at the autumn leaves that swirl down from the trees that line your path.
At twenty-six, walking to the Métro that will take you home, have you found what you were looking for? Have you found out what you were looking for? I remember how full of hope you were when you came here, to this city of love, just a few months ago. This side's grass was so much greener then, but surely you must've known that. Somewhere in your mind, there was that little nagging you ignored. And that's fair enough; that's fine. I couldn't have listened to it, either.
You look up into the soft rain drizzling from the sky, step into puddles, smiling grimly to yourself. Oh sure, your tongue flows effortlessly among the delicate vowels of your pain au chocolat at the boulangerie in the morning, but you still prefer tea with it: milk, no sugar. Where do you belong? Your coat is a picture of elegance, but walking down the street, you lack confidence in your step. Is this your home? Oh sure, your tongue flicks irresistibly over her skin as your naked bodies strain towards each other, but the loneliness you feel afterwards as you look at the thin blue veins on her pale, beautiful face is worse than the loneliness you felt when you were all alone.
For a moment, you feel like crying. In the rain, nobody would see your tears, but they seem too much effort and anyway, here you are now in the dry, warm underground station. The last emotions ebb away in the soothing hum of the Métro as you wait for your train; the orange countdown reads three minutes. There's not enough time to be upset.
Oh, Sophie. There's never enough time. Even at home, after dinner and the news on TV and running a wash, when you light a candle and pour yourself a glass of wine, even then you can't give in to feelings because there's another day to be got through tomorrow and you should be in bed, not staring at the walls.
Oh, Sophie. At twenty-six, is that all there is? Is that all there will be?