>my soul slides away, but don’t look back in anger, i heard you say
it’s the small thoughts that paint the portrait. and i keep thinking about odd things.
about the night i ate 3 pickles in bed while joe slept.
about blowing raspberries on each other’s tummies.
about the eratic moving walkways in paris’ metro stations, which had vibrating beads that made us feel like we were surfing along the water.
about the documentary we watched on french television one night about a chillingly smug man who slaughtered his wife with a smile.
about descending the escalators at the Louvre, where joe propped himself up on the handrails, letting his feet dangle.
about the way he called me “paris hilton” every time i wore my sunglasses indoors.
about the way he held his breath in his sleep.
about the way he always takes the stairs two at a time, while i huff and puff one by one.
about the morning we woke up and both instinctively kissed each other’s noses.
about wandering in annoyance around the latin quarter for 45 minutes, trying to find a restaurant that i could eat in.
about my tendency to loudly say ‘cocksucker’ in public, and how he’d cringe in embarrassment.
about the bench outside of the Shakespeare and Company bookstore that had the last lines of A Midsummer Nights Dream engraved in it.
about the way he solemnly lit a candle in the notre dame cathedral.
about the way we leaned over the ledge of the seine, staring into the aqueous green, as the rain pelted us, talking about about the gravity of everything.
about the way he’d squeeze my hand tightly right before we’d cross the street, dodging traffic chaos.
about the way he giggled like a school boy when he grew ticklish as i gave him a massage.
about the way we sang “leaving on a jet plane.”
about the fat tears that fell from my eyes like stones.
i fell asleep last night, back in my own bed, jet lagged. the silence is all around, and the sheets are cold.
i woke up without dreaming.
i used to love this city. now it’s not enough. i want more.