I think I mentioned before that I did not want to go to Paris. This is based largely on stereotypes that exist in my own mind about French people. Basically I feel VERY rude for going to Paris without any French-language fluency. Also, yeah, I think those guys are angry and rude. And don’t like tourists. I said it.
But hey. My boyfriend told me he was going there, so I made it happen. His parents were also with us. So not quite as romantic as you might think. Got a nice lecture on cultural differences from his father.
February till August… finally got to see him again. Holding hands nearly killed me I think. Overdose.
Mona Lisa at the Louvre… biggest celebrity in Europe.
LOUUUUVRE. (next three are Notre Dame Cathedral.)
We’re so cute. Put a lock on it. (also cliche.)
Arc de Triomphe. Paris is just a big art gallery. head to toe.
cute, cute, we are cute.
It’s like… okay:
So when my brother was very young my parents would give him crushed up ice-chips and tell him it was ice-cream, while they had their sundaes or whatever. I’m actually not sure why. Cheapskateism? Sadism? Health concerns?
“Ice-cream! Get ice-cream!” He loved that crap. Didn’t know the difference. Until one day an uncle or grandmother or someone gave him REAL ice-cream. And the jig was up.
Now he’s never said he was mad about this. I guess he just devoured the ice-cream with confusion? Or unbridled joy? Obviously he would never be satisfied with crushed up ice again.
Anyways what I’m trying to say is it’s been 21 years of ice-chips before I met you.
I can’t explain to anyone why I’m still with you through all this. People think you were just my first longterm/serious relationship, and now I’m trapped in that. There is something you have that I can’t label. Something you have that other people just don’t. Almost no one.
And okay it’s gonna be hard. Explaining to my entire extended family that you aren’t a Christian, (cue the horrified glances when I’m looking the other way) and that yes, I intend to kick it on the daily, forever, with you.
But I can’t imagine it won’t be worth it.
come back and fix everything.
my thoughts don’t seem to press well together, now a dirty tangle of threads instead of the once-bright tapestry. I can’t think what picture must be woven, the one so clear to me a week ago today is dim as dreams, thick fog, impenetrable. (I was somewhere else) or Soon, I will find myself waking up, shaking sweating and relieved. I will pour myself into your arms. “I had the worst dream….” Reality will be blinding us, sunrise through picture windows. This will not happen. The only present-tense that weakens my eyesight is darkness. I feel my way through four hundred days, scrape my shin on five hundred and seventy six thousand minutes, the miles an impossible maze between us. The time, moreso. This is not anguish. This is dull, confused, gray-skies ache. Your “I love you” feels more like a bruise than a promise. I am becoming far too skilled at goodbye poetry.