I'll Build Me A Paris Out Of Fountain Pens And Lined Paper.

Paris is waking up in the morning and having ten extra minutes to do your hair.

Paris is finding a 20 dollar bill in your pocket.

Paris is kissing someone you haven't seen in a very long time.

Paris is figuring out why you're angry.

Paris is being able to breathe.

In, out.  Out, in.

And that's why when I finally walked under the Eiffel Tower, I cried.

That's what beauty does to you.  It makes you cry.  And Paris is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.  I stay up all night staring at it, and wishing that I'd never have to leave.  

I'll always want Paris.

Because Paris is the only place that gives me the good kind of chills.  Paris is a time when I can forget about derivatives and muscle anatomy, and remember the times when my mother would pick me up and sing "A Bushel And A Peck" into my ear.  Paris makes me think about my dad and how I'm actually really mad at him, but that's okay.  Paris tells me that I'm not perfect, but that I could get pretty close if I tried hard enough.  Paris makes me feel important again.


I try to do Paris right.  I try to give back what Paris gives me.  I wonder if Paris knows how much I need it.  I wonder if Paris knows that I've never been good at anything before.  And that I still don't really know my way around Paris yet.  But I'm connecting the streets on the back of my hand, and I'm writing down pronunciations of hard words, and I'm making my way through all the best restaurants and parks.  Paris, I'm just starting to smell the cracked bread and the wine.  I'm seeing strings of lights in my dreams.  I'm waking up to roses on the nightstand and the lingering scent of perfume on my pillow.  I'm figuring out where to start my life.  And I hope to do it in Paris.

Except I know there will be a day when I wake up and Paris is closed.  You promised me I'd always be able to find you in Paris.  But you never mentioned that Paris kicks you out after 6 months of residency.  I won't know what to do with myself.  If Paris is closed, so am I.  

I love Paris.

Paris doesn't love me back.