Spring in Paris

Paris, full of lightness. 
A still feverish winter, falling slowly over the sweetness of a colored spring. 
Place de la Bastille. Busy restaurants. Foreign accents. Nonchalance of the wanderers. 
My skin, my heart, my soul, imbued with your breath and your voice. 
Paris in Spring. A reunion in the heart of an asserted loneliness. Adult, strengthened. Without any concession. A solitude which has grown up until finally finding itself  beautiful. 
An endless break, near the white sleeping cat surrounded by books. Further, Frida and me. 
Long walk along the quays of the Seine. Gargoyles and booksellers.
In the timelessness of the moment, I am. 
I am myself added to You. Miles away. So far, so near. I am the lightness and the freedom born out of your love. 
Looking at the empty seat by my side.
Almighty loneliness. My independance, shivering at the thought of your absence. An inside shiver that envelops my heart, torn by a silent cry of longing.
The pains, frozen in timelessness, thousands of miles away. Like a gentle reassurance, yet. A relief. Your whisper on my lips. 
We are.
(Spring 2014)