Paris, Until Now

This is actually part of a lager unfinished piece but I liked it, so here it is!

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And so it hits me now. Finally removed from my desolate stupor with enough time to find this elusive piece; I love this place. The soft light, the tall trees, the endless love. Romance in volleying capitulations, undulating between and in-between the living. A cool smoked cigar on delicate lips, morsels and bushels of timely placed ice cream cones, elongated baguettes and fresh moist cheese. Broken but moving, this place keeps its own time and let's you know, as soon as you're not watching, that it is about to change hands again. This is fall completing itself, like late summer. How many years have I been waiting for a season like this! One that picks and pecks and peeks in at you and calmly, warmly and asks you how you've been. An old friend, a warm heart with a steady hand, both of you out there living an independent yet shared existence.

Paris je t'aime. Not just for what you pretend to be in all your pretentious indignation and apprehensions, but in your sprawling madness, to slip my hand inside you and my head around a new avenue. To be volleyed upwards to the heavens with cascading gratitude. To be ignored in your dim light. . .

I love the way you part for me like a setting sun. Only releasing the part of your charms you want me to see. The cartography notes of your beauty, tattooed behind my eyes from past lives. You are a sheltered proper women, content to be called, to be photographed and invited to all the best parties. But as for what what you really want, that is to remain completely misunderstood. And we share that much don't we? Our language-less communication is one of mutual respect and curiosity. You are not the people within you who want to be you, or those who have painted your ancient walls. You are my Paris. You are my sin. Your are my misery. You are my despair. And right now you're my only hope.

But you wear hope well, like a rising balloon. Up and upward the strings of twine and rolling ribbons gather together with all those released before and after me. You wear them well, your loft coloured inflation's, all that hope spinning in the passage of time you know too well. Paris je t'aime, je t'aime beaucoup. You silence me.