Paris: The City of Love

Stop kissing everywhere.  Stop holding each other while you walk.  That's not comfortable, and don't just keep walking on with that second-guess in your step, just trying to synchronize the beats of the heels as your so sure the ones of your heart are.  They're not.  Or if they are, how strange that is to me.  Are you living her life, or if she living yours?  Because there's definitely a feeding off the other.  And in Paris, it's everywhere.  There's a feeding off everything.  The "Babe, I love you," looking at the Eiffel Tower, en Francais, en Anglais, en Allmand, however you want it.  And a kiss just so she knows for sure.  It's the gooey love I can't stand, but maybe because I've never understood it.

Let me be your everlasting light
Your train going away from pain
Love is the coal, that makes this train roll
Let me be your everlasting light


I've never understood it.  That giving of the self, to grow so attached.  That feeling's lost on me.  Maybe it's something of a growth in the other direction.  Towards the solidarity of a life on my own.  With close friends and passing relations.  Nobody's going to get that close, of that I'm reluctantly certain.  But we can always hope can't we?  For that shining star at the top of the Tour Eiffel with the world an ant farm as I hold her close and she squeezes back, gliding so high above it all that nothing else matters anymore, and that beam of light into the night reaching around towards the horizon, ellipsing right above to hit every point on the line, that beam is just ours to share.  I'll probably never be up there.  In that chocolate ganache of true romance above the city.  But at least I know what I want.  It's particular.  It's peculiar.  It's something special in the way I see her.  Something different.  Something comfortable.  It has to be.  Until then though, let me just sit here in the park Champs de Mars with my friends, high as a Parisienne disposition on dry Barcelona weed.  We all have our sunglasses on.