Like an ever recurring dream,
As if I had already experienced this scene.
I am drawn to the Paris light in autumn.
It pierces the curtains,
caresses my eyelids.
The light brings softer days
Today feels like a Sunday.
I went out yesterday.
Not late, but I put my heart into it.
A bit of madness, too.
I slept in my clothes.
Not entirely, but this morning,
I was still wearing my shoes.
A tour of the premises, a coffee, a long break
and perhaps everything will come back to me.
Nothing. Still nothing. Not him, not the memories.
I sense his presence.
I search for it.
My hands skim across the walls in search of clues.
I don’t find any.
So I give him some.
Vowels in an envelope.
Scratches on a canvas.
An anchor on the rug.
And footprints on the floor.
I slowly dress.
You never know.
I start to feel bored.
At least I do it with style.
My grandmother used to tell me I was the cat’s meow.
I’m not sure what she meant.
It's good to have time.
But suddenly I’m over it.
I look at myself one last time.
"Je suis plutôt belle".
A key, a click of my heel, and I’m out.
The air is still warm.
It is the Indian summer in the Parisian fall.
I am mixing Parisian references with New York memories.
I cross the street and wander gently from dream to daydream.
Every day should start like this.
The flutter of a lash,
a familiar dream,
an escape forward.