Painting a picture of us,
with excited and exhausted eyelashes,
pure and passionate,
on the pavements of Paris.
Walking with wide eyes,
rues of roses,
rare moments,
where we can be alone,
wrapped in each other’s arms,
wrapped up in a dream.
Regret leaks onto the landscape,
for the future is so far,
and I am alone,
unsure,
but warmed by the bittersweet joy of waiting,
consumed by wanderlust,
consuming carefree days,
where the weather will be dreary,
but my dearest love,
will spill sunshine,
across the street,
when he looks at me.
Filling my mouth,
with foods,
and feelings I can’t pronounce.
Crème brûlée.
I can’t survive without you.
Mousse au chocolat.
(I said I couldn’t pronounce it…)
You are the love of my life.
Lipgloss, gone,
a single cigarette,
shared,
alight on a balcony,
between two hearts,
two kisses,
then three,
four,
forever.
Cool air of autumn winds,
kick up the leaves,
all around us,
surrounded by aspiration,
inspiration for my next book,
and our first set of holiday photos,
that will lay forgotten,
until we fight,
until we have to find our way back,
to that day,
where I tried a new food,
after several exhausting minutes,
of menu meandering,
and you tried to pretend you finally believed,
as I pulled you into a fortune teller’s lair,
with a little kiss.
Life,
and love,
are never as simple,
not always as beautiful,
as the picture I have in my mind,
of Paris.
Life is not La Vie En Rose,
I can’t pretend that we,
or gay Paris,
shall always be perfect,
unscathed by the uncertainties of the world,
and it’s unfortunate unpredictability,
but,
my love,
it’s only you,
for me,
and me,
for you,
for life.
