Paris:
The bitter swell of my metaphorical coffee burning slowly down my throat. Warm yellow lights hit me in all the right places, and the flakes of snow bow down to kiss my hair. The lower lamp lights my skin and it smoothly whispers 'perfection'.
The neighbor's music's swimming up through our apartment floor like kisses to my eardrums. Planting seeds of love in our fraying carpet. The musician never sleeps.
Because we can always hear the music. We rock and sway together on our balcony. Cold metal railing. Icy, like the tips of my fingers, you tell me.
We will sleep till the sun hits my easel and my oils and my brushes. Then will the angels drag me from the blankets and from the comforter of my own bed.
And the gods and the muses and the demigods and the spirits of my children will work through me. Starting at my roots and creating sparks at each curve of my ringlets. But the fire splits at each of my ends, and that's the greatest part of it all. We'll create things heavier than the sun that filters through the cracks of our lace curtains.
And we'll write down everything, so our children can know what it's really like in Paris. So when they have to grow like an adult and they by their tickets out, they can know why I married you in Paris. Know why I loved in Paris and know why the best baguette's are in Paris. And know why they make 'paris' out of 'paradise'.
We'll be watching Hepburn in old black and white films and checking out Walt Disney biographies in the old man's makeshift library on the third floor.
We'll hold hands 7 blocks down. Then we stop there and get some lunch.
There's no time in Paris. No tea time or d.e.a.r. time or me time or you time.
We will sleep till the sun hits my easel and my oils and my brushes. Then will the angels drag me from the blankets and from the comforter of my own bed.
And the gods and the muses and the demigods and the spirits of my children will work through me. Starting at my roots and creating sparks at each curve of my ringlets. But the fire splits at each of my ends, and that's the greatest part of it all. We'll create things heavier than the sun that filters through the cracks of our lace curtains.
And we'll write down everything, so our children can know what it's really like in Paris. So when they have to grow like an adult and they by their tickets out, they can know why I married you in Paris. Know why I loved in Paris and know why the best baguette's are in Paris. And know why they make 'paris' out of 'paradise'.
We'll be watching Hepburn in old black and white films and checking out Walt Disney biographies in the old man's makeshift library on the third floor.
We'll hold hands 7 blocks down. Then we stop there and get some lunch.
There's no time in Paris. No tea time or d.e.a.r. time or me time or you time.
Paris is wherever I'm with you.
3 comments:
This makes me very jealous. I don't know how you write like this but I'm in love with it.
I don't either. You killed the metaphor- in a good way.
My favorite lines:
The musician never sleeps.
There's no time in Paris.
And thanks for the anything else response. It's good to know some people are listening.
"The musician never sleeps in Paris." This just barely occurred to me- one of the root words of 'musician' is 'muse.'
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