Haute Like Couture

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[hautelikecouture]

Those personal textposts of yours.. They sounds like extractions from a novel. Are u living a fiction? Or do you aspire to be a professional writer?

Well, sometimes it feels like I am living a fiction, but no, they are not extractions from a novel. I would like to publish a book, but I don’t know that I would ever call myself a professional writer.

[hautelikecouture]

and now I am picking out rugs and colors for a home that isn’t mine.

you need to like it, I said defiantly when he nodded at my choice, you live here.

what if you live here?

I felt my face flush.

it’s not easy to embarrass me these days, but those words do.

I insist to my friends it was a joke

instigated by the charade of playing house on a Wednesday evening,

his interior decorator sitting on the floor with a pile of samples and a glass of wine

while I stood flipping through fabric

and he leaned against the couch watching me.

the words resonate weeks later and I find myself wondering,

but was it a joke?

I lived with someone once.

It ultimately led to a relatively peaceful, mutual break up.

The truth is I suddenly couldn’t stand him.

I insist that now I will never marry any man without having lived with him first.

compatibility is easy when you each go home to your own sanctuary after dinner,

but what happens when you wake up late at night

next to him

uncomfortable in the space you created together where secrets and fears are supposed to be safe in between your tangled limbs?

when I sleep with someone else, I tend to cling to the edge of the bed.

I try to hold on to even an inch of mine.

those lines are blurred as his friends become ours

and we host dinner and he cooks while I pour drinks

and I listen to their laughter while I clear the dishes.

I don’t know where mine ends or begins when he whispers to me that he more than likes me.

I fight the urge to leave

and sigh instead

and think about white dove versus seapearl versus gardenia

because we want something neutral for the overpriced arm chairs.

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he takes my hand and tells me I am the best part of his day.

even without wanting it to,

my hand tenses.

I can’t tell if he doesn’t notice

or simply pretends not to.

I smile, but look away when he presses his lips to the back of my hand and

I roll down the window and hope the tension escapes into the quiet night.

I dragged myself through the mud for years for somebody else.

and now I flinch at any hint of devotion.

I am pulling out all of the stops this time.

I bite my lip. He thinks he did something wrong seven months ago when I fell silent and 

he thinks he can make me stay.

but he doesn’t realize that people like me, we want to know how far we can run before our legs give out 

from under us.

he does not overwhelm me,

but his hopes smother me.

I don’t want children

I say it flatly. without a hint of emotion. it’s fact, not feeling.

but what if....?

he trails off into a few different scenarios.

there is no “what if.”

I play with my fingernails nervously when I tell her this.

embarrassed to be speaking openly about this man’s feelings for me, of his attention and affection...

embarrassed to tell her that he hired a masseuse to come over to try to drain the stress out of me after I complained about a busy work week.

a white sheet draped over me, his floor to ceiling windows revealing a bright sun over the Los Angeles skyline 

and I was tense.

[hautelikecouture]

Hello?

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Going up!

       Jenni Kayne dress // Louboutins - Very Prive

Cut the arms off of my trench coat to make it summer appropriate.

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Visit Original Link

Thinking About You (Frank Ocean cover) - Ellie Charlotte Tandy — slow, sweet, she said, somehow exactly what I did not know I needed.

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He smelled like Sunday mornings, Bon Iver and Macallan 18.

I don't sleep much.

I wake up constantly for periods ranging between thirty minutes and a few hours.

It has been this way since I can remember;

Usually I stare at my ceiling and think about things I need to do

I try not to think about things I need, or think I need, to say.

Last night every time I woke up that line I had written a few days ago popped into my head.

I turned over. Over and over.

Went on instagram - although - nothing really happens on there at three in the morning.

I sat there, in the dark thinking about it for some time.

I have always been a big scent person;

I could spend hours dizzying myself sniffing one after the other

with the occasional whiff of coffee beans in between.

I like exquisite, exclusive scents and those found not just anywhere.

It was strange to me when he told me did not wear cologne;

I had dated men whose colognes seemed to play hide-n-seek with their egos.

The thing about a well chosen scent is that it lingers ever so desirably;

come find me rather than here I am.

A little mystery keeps things exciting.

He did not need it.

I loved that he smelled like a man and his scent was nothing like the synthetic masculinity that sits in glass cases under bright lights at Nordstrom...

no price tag, no fancy bottle, and certainly not available to sample.

And last night I wondered, so why Sunday? Why Bon Iver? And why Macallan?

I thought I had chosen those words

but they had practically typed themselves.

Sunday mornings were luxurious, white sheets pulled over tangled limbs for just a little too long, 

I do not know how to sleep but it did not matter

I liked watching him sleep while

he kept one arm not so casually wrapped around my hips

as I challenged myself not to think and just enjoy

[and there was so much to enjoy]

Bon Iver humming in the background

someway, baby, it's part of me, apart from me

I would chime in quietly.

Intoxicated -

we probably did have one drink too many the night before

and the smell of whisky would fill the air for a few seconds; it could have been imaginary -

by the feeling of being exactly where I wanted to be.

There:

he smelled like the powerful melody of desire, blended meticulously with opulent intentions by a passionate hand; it had the most gratifying sillage.

You won't find that in stores.

It turns out desire is not a scent you can just wash away.

[texturism]

in effect, the cost of being who you are is that you can’t possibly meet everyone’s expectations, and so, there will inevitably, be external conflict to deal with - the friction of being visible.

still, the cost of not being who you are is that while you are busy pleasuring everyone around you, a precious part of you is dying inside; in this case, there will be internal conflict to deal with – the friction of being invisible.

- mark nepo | via mystic mama [emphasis mine]

[hautelikecouture]

Everything.

       Zuhair Murad Pre-Fall 2014

Ideal attire for crashing a cocktail party.

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Perfectly simple,

simply perfect.

       Kendall Jenner // March 21

Too damn good.

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Perfectly simple, simply perfect.

       Kim Kardashian // March 13

This is laid-back-glam perfection.

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       Zuhair Murad Fall 2014

So chic. So stunning.

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Debut.

       Louis Vuitton Fall 2014

Nicolas Ghesquière's first show for Louis Vuitton after 14 years of Marc Jacobs...

ya did good, kid.

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Edge.

       Izabel Goulart // February 28

Classic with a twist.

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Perfectly simple,

simply perfect.

       Kelly Ripa // February 28

Classic.

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In 1 look...

       Dsquared² Fall 2014

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In 3, 2, 1...

       Balenciaga Fall 2014

Sophomore season for A.Wang,

not too shabby.