french kisses & toast

a place to write down all the things in my head.

[frenchkisstoast-blog]

Thinks.

When I'm tired and lonely, think of me.

When all the energy to stay awake, when the stars start going out inside my mind, think of me.

When I'm busy answering phone calls and trying to get my life together, think of me.

When everything around me seems to rush past and I'm unable to grasp onto it physically with my pale hands, think of me.

When I'm silent and quiet and looking out onto the expanse of skyscrapers blocking out the sky, think of me.

When I'm inking pink letters into dainty lace paper, think of me.

When the days fly by like the ashes from a fire, think of me.

When I'm not there to share your moments or sit with you, think of me.

Think of me, because your memory of me is all I have left to hang onto.

[frenchkisstoast-blog]

Closer.

The sky is dimming, making way for the stardust sky to come bouldering in gently, rolling like moss on a tilted landscape. Set to the soundtrack of pink and purple hues, the blending of blue, settling in just above the horizon. A blend of cornflower blue to lavender as the sky stretches up above our heads. 

It's that late summer breeze that caresses the nape of your neck, swaying your hair like long grass in the wind. There is something still about the air around us, despite the cooler drop in temperature. Some like to call it the end of youth, the bittersweet parting of friendships, the decadence of all things born into the midsummer night, but it seems a little too dramatic. It is just you, and me. Sitting against the watercolour twilight that is breaking the atmosphere, in the spaces between our fingers, in the stark contract of our skin on skin.

It isn't a surprise when your hand tangles their way into mine. No surprise as your fingers try to reach into the depths of my mind. No surprise at all, as your hands come up to cradle my face, the thumbs of your hands spanning the map of my cheeks, the way they leave hot marks on my face as you inch that little bit further forward.

And that's when it starts. That's when it's a soft exchange of heated rouge on rouge, as our lips touch just barely. Our breaths mingle, and your body dips forward a little more persistently. 

Close is not close enough, hot is not hot enough. Touches are fleeting, but they are smooth, firm, knowing. My heart is beating in the refines of the cardigan I grabbed just before I left the house. The knotted fabric where I have tumbled over your sheets in the winter days, the bobbles of knit that have formed from your curious hands. Everything spirals into slow motion. I feel like my chest is about to cave from the constant hammering of heartstrings. In my mind, things are hazy like a 70's psychedelic movie, romantic like the 50's, pink and pastel tinted like the 60's, chaste like the 40's. My fingertips trace the buttons of your shirt, hooking a needing finger in the gaps of stark white button to button, reeling you in as my mind reels from our soundtrack playing inside. 

Summer after summer replay in my mind one after another. The first meeting. The first laugh. The first glint in your eye as we eat ice cream, the chocolate vanilla monstrosity melting down my forearm, as laughter rocks your car that we're sat in, too hot to even really move. The first time you held my hand with tears in my eyes. The first time you step into my room and inform me it looks like a set from a 90's chick flick complete with band posters and heart shaped sticky notes all over my dresser. The first time you tell me that we were going to stick together. The first time you took me out, the first time you kissed me, the first time you squeezed my hands in the night, the first time we shared my bed, the first time we loved. Will love. Are loving.

There's a silence between us as we lie there on the grass. Your shoes are scuffed from the shuffling through the crowd, my legs sore from the dance, our heads swimming from the end of summers.

There's futures, there's responsibilities, there's newness to the coming months that has my body tingling, has my toes curling, has your hands threading their way into my own. 

As the palette of twilight part their curtains for the dark of night, just for now, the summer stretches on in our hearts just that little bit longer.

[frenchkisstoast-blog]

Empty.

It's been a while since I've seen you, and the way your hair falls between your eyes a little longer than usual means you probably haven't had time to book a hair appointment (I've always had to do this for you, things never change). I want to sweep them away from your face and tell you teasingly that you need to sort your life out, but I still my hands on my coffee and sit silently as you settle yourself.

"I had to grab an umbrella before I came out, sorry I'm late."

I brush it off casually as you shake your coat, raindrops scattering like tiny flecks of gold on the wooden floorboards of the cafe we'd arranged to rendezvous at. My hands tremble a little as I take a small sip of the Americano in my mug and take a sharp breath in as you sit across from me, your own latte a way across from mine, our hands nearly brushing as your encircle your hands around it for warmth.

We sit in silence. It's about 4am, a bit unusual considering normal people go and grab a coffee in the normal functioning hours of society but I never said we were all that normal. 

I want to open my mouth and burst out with how I've missed you, how nothing has quite fallen into place since the day I walked out on you, how even though I've settled into a different part of town out of our apartment we had and grabbed myself a new job, things just don't sit quite right with me. I don't want to know whether or not it's the same for you, I don't want to know if you've been seeing anyone new, if you've kept your job. The air is familiar and yet alien, the taste of coffee strange in my mouth as I stare out at the rain in the blue haze of the early morn.

It's you who speaks first.

"Ha, it's different isn't it."

I'm not sure how to respond, so all I can do is grip my white mug of coffee a little tighter in my hand and look down into the black of the drink in hand. 

"Is that it."

You're taken aback a little. It was obvious you had no idea what to say either, and that was the only way you could break the ice. But for some reason I couldn't take the tinge of bitterness out of my voice as I said it. It's been too long, my life has been like an itching spider crawling up my spine, making cobwebs in places where your hands used to be. I've missed you. I still love you. The scar lies as open as the gap between us on this table as we sit looking at each other: small, but painful. Like a deep paper cut that just won't close back up.

I know you can feel the burn flash across my eyes for that split second as you look away from me. I'm sorry. I didn't meant to do this to you. 

"I..."

I wait. I wait with every fibre of my existence clinging onto the cliffhanger of your voice. 

"I missed you."

There's a sudden rush of air, as if I've been punched right in the gut and everything that existed inside of me spills out like my insides have been turned inside out. My hands are wet as I brush haphazardly at my face, laughing at my own inability to hold composure as your hand reaches forward to touch my other.

And instead of it being comforting, it burns. 

"You can't do this. You can't do this to me and come back to me like this. You just."

I could feel the small choke in my voice as I grab my bag and my possessions, the clank of my rain boots making themselves to the door before I could even think of any possible reasons for doing this, the thunk of heavy quick paced walking as my mind goes blank and I push the heavy doors of the cafe. The bell rings, reverberates within my mind as I step out into the rain.

Your hand pulls me back.

I look up and there's no more rain. There's just the umbrella you've had since we first met over us, casting a dry space under which we stand. I can't look at you. I hid my hand within the sleeves of my trenchcoat as you grip at my elbow, indicating for me to stop and listen to what you had to say. I secretly hope within that you'd ask me to not go. Even though my legs are telling me to run, I stay rooted to the ground as if the rain as glued my feet to the pavement. The rain falls around us. I think of how we used to walk home, arm in arm, stumbling with our shoes wet and my hair undone from our movie dates, our picnics, our romantic dinner dates out to fancy places for our anniversary. No matter the occasion we would always come back here, sit with our coffees, before we went home. Where did those times go? What were you thinking when I walked home one day to see you with someone else. What was it like when I hit you across your face and walked out on you, her still in your bed as you scramble forward to catch me before I slithered out of your life, out of our home. What were you thinking when you walked in today, what was it like to look me in the eye with what you had done? The grip on my arm tightens as I make an attempt to run again, to flee before I get roped in again into your lies.

"Stay."

[frenchkisstoast-blog]

Strawberry.

It was a little predictable, that it would be strawberry of all things. If I had to put a scent to you, it would be that. I can smell it as you step out of the shower, hair being dried with your not-so-perfectly-white towel (“the red hair dye comes out so fast”).

It’s not just strawberry though. It’s like this sweeter, slightly muskier smell than the type of strawberry you get in syrup. It’s a little sharper than the warmth of strawberry tea. Perhaps a much closer smell to the unripe strawberries that used to pile up row upon row on my early summer trips into the country. 

As you settle yourself on the edge of the bed, I can smell it again. I can smell it when you lean over to look at me, smell it as you inch closer with a smile on your face. Smell it as your damp hair dangles across your forehead as you lean over, our noses brushing slightly, to place a soft kiss to my face. Smell it as you tip me back slowly, smell it as your hands come round to thread your fingers in my hair.

I smell it in the early morning as we drink our coffee together. That sweet smell lingering as I take your shirts out to be laundered. The way it hugs me as I put on your sweater when we go out for our walks together in the evening, hand in hand. 

But it’s not really strawberry. It’s all just really you.

[frenchkisstoast-blog]

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“2시의 데이트” by 가인 & 조형우.

[frenchkisstoast-blog]

Croque Monsieur.

There's a rush to get to the door as you swing it open, your head of black hair shaking slightly as you laugh at our lateness in waking up. By the time we reach the cafe across the road, it's already 11am and you tell me, as you rush me to our usual place by the giant window where we sit, that we might as well be having brunch what with my laziness.

I casually add that your tendencies to kiss me awake in the morning are enough of a distraction to keep us there until the afternoon, of which you suddenly turn a slightly redder shade than I had seen you in earlier. As you sit yourself down, the waitress spots you and you tell her we're having the usual. Always a croque monsieur, one for the both of us, a small cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice. It's what we have every time we're here for breakfast.

Your feet tap little tunes onto the tiled floor, as you excitedly await for the fresh smell of fried eggs to waft in through the kitchen door. There's nobody else in right now, the music from the player playing quietly over this moment.

You reach forward to hold my hand in yours. It's warm and soft, taking in all of my smaller one, like a blanket wrapping itself round me, sending tingles all the way to my toes. As your fingers lace their way through mine one by one, your foot brushes against mine. I look up to see you gazing out of the window, watching the people and the traffic go by with a lazy look in your eyes. 

If I could capture a moment forever, it would be that absentminded tender expression you have right now, and lock it away in my heart. But I know I don't need to, because I know we'll be doing this tomorrow morning again, morning after morning after morning.

[frenchkisstoast-blog]

Sepia coloured embraces.

Your arms find their way around my waist as you hug me from behind. I'm making breakfast for us, as the late morning sepia seeps through the panes of our window. It's warm, your touch even warmer, as you bury your nose into my mussed up hair. But you don't mind at all. I can feel you breathe out softly, the air rushing out slowly, fluttering my heart just a little more than I'd like to admit, beating in my chest a little faster.

Your soft pink tinted hair brushes against my neck, as you settle your head into my shoulder. I can feel the gentle brush of your eyelashes as you shift a little bit closer, pulling me that little bit tighter into your embrace.

Your fingers trace patterns along my sides, and I let out a laugh. You ask if it tickles, and I shake my head, telling you it's okay and you need not worry. I'm mixing the batter for the crepes I'm making us, and you're dipping your fingers cheekily in and taking a taste. I scold you for doing so but you just mimic my half-hearted effort in telling you off. 

As I turn to move towards the stove, you catch me before I can go anywhere, your arms still around my waist as you lean in slowly and kiss my eyes, my nose, my cheeks. Flustered by your actions, I stay completely still as you slowly move in to press a kiss to my lips. 

I smile into it without realising it. You pull away a little faster than I had hoped, and as I look back at your large, round eyes gazing back at me, I realise that with each passing moment that we're together, I wouldn't want to look into anyone else's eyes in the morning but yours.

[frenchkisstoast-blog]

Bittersweet Espresso.

On certain mornings, I find myself alone in bed. 

Only to find out that once again you had surprised me with breakfast. As I lie there slowly coming out of the sleep that tugs at my limbs, I can smell that rich aroma of your favourite coffee. The one that you buy from the store across the road. Your eyes had widened just that little bit more at the smell coming from within the wooden paneled shop, and although rather languid and reserved for the most part, the speed in which you briskly walked in to discover the source of the richness in the air had me laughing slightly, as I trudged in behind you, your tall back leaning over the counter enthusiastically. 

That same distinctive bitter smell was making its way towards me, a small piece of french toast, topped with icing sugar, blueberries and honey sitting on a flower patterned plate. You smile slowly, that lazy type of smile as you lean over and kiss my forehead. Your long brown hair brushing against my cheek as you do so, the frames of your glasses frosting over a little as you sit down next to me in bed.

"Good morning."

And although I had not yet tasted the warmth of the coffee in your hand, nor the deliciousness that would await me with your handmade breakfast, the sweetness of your deep voice in the morning had me just that little bit more in love with you.

[frenchkisstoast-blog]

Morning breeze.

It went without saying that breakfasts with you were always my favourite moment of the day. The way your smile in the bright early sunshine radiates is more beautiful than all the stars shining in the late evening, as we hold each other at night. 

I brush the crumbs from the corners of your puckered mouth as you take a giant bite of your muffin. I can't help but giggle at you, tiny pieces of debris falling all over as we sit together on our bed, the white sheets now littered with tiny stars of chocolate. Eating is your joy in life and breakfast is the most important. You lick your lips, your pink tongue licking my fingers by accident, as I shake my head at your childishness. Your eyes shine a little brighter, the strands of your hair haphazardly falling around your face, mussed up from your tosses and turns in your sleep.

You lift the same muffin to my lips as I take a tentative bite. You laugh out loud, your voice chiming throughout the whole room as you kiss away the smudge of chocolate that I get on my nose. I swat at you as you dodge my advances, eventually falling on the bed, enraptured in your own merriment at my misfortune.

Your beauty shines from within as you sit there, in the gentle breeze of the mid-April weather. The flowers have started to bloom on our window sill where I have each and every single plant named. You had insisted on it. You'd sing to them as you wash the dishes afterwards, your gentle voice caressing each and every single petal that sways in the wind. Your voice that made me fall for you, that makes me fall for you more and more every waking moment.

When I open my eyes, I want to hear your singing. As I close my eyes, I want to hear you whisper words to me as we lie next to each other. But for now, let me take in the sight of you sipping at your juice, humming a song that only the two of us know.

[frenchkisstoast-blog]

Cinnamon Mornings.

It's hard to describe in words the way the light cascades across your face, like little sprinklings of diamond dust. I make it sound like the light itself is what makes you beautiful, but of course, it only highlights everything about you as we sit and have breakfast together.

The shadows that form along the bridge of your nose. The way the late morning daylight filters through your long lashes. It hits the tiny fibres of bleached hair on your head, falling softly on your straight smooth shoulders. Never have I ever seen you so beautiful as every single morning in which we share together for breakfast. 

The way the slightly creamy sunshine falls upon the gentle curve of your lips as you take a sip of your morning coffee. The same soft lips that touch mine in the warmest and most tender of evenings, look so different in this light. 

With each passing minute, second, millisecond. Time seems to slow as we sit together here, me in your overly large white dress shirt, taking a bite of the cinnamon roll I made yesterday. I take note of the little sprinkling of flour that brushes against the side of your mouth as you take a bite, reading your paper. The way your chest heaves as you take in a deep breath of spring air. 

I have never loved you more than this moment. And I will never love you any less.