Tags: begum sekendiz bore

making grey skies look like silver skies

as the sad sky broods over paris and cries on my clothes, she unfolds her sarcenet wings over me and my sky shines.
she is my curse and my blessing in disguise.
she forthwith hauls me towards my sewing machine, makes holes on my finger tips and pumps blood to my art. threads become my veins.
she is the sarcenet lining that stitches the fabric to my heart, giving me substance and life.
helas, the brash vanguard muse from welkin that she is, she catches, and then releases me off-guard in a rush. i'd rather she wore out her welcome and stayed longer on my arm than abandon me and fly away without alarm.
what's worse than not having a cigarette when you are desperate for a puff? having a cigarette but not having a lighter.
she is my absent lighter and i am a useless cigarette she now refuses to inspire.
yes, she's long gone and i am left yet again in my own defunct devices. to my defunct pins and needles and papers and sketches and crayons and pincushions. my scarlet heart is now scarred. my wooden mannequin suggest we waltz. devastated, i threw the pincushions at her head and she falls.
i flee the atelier and start walking along the boulevard in search of my vanguard. i look to the skies, to catch a glimpse of her effigy. in vain.
my eyes get wet, my veins tear, and my soul become threadbare. i feel like a helpless refugee. i start looking for a tailor to repair me.