Perfect in Paris

I have never been there but it lives in my mind.
Behind my desk are pictures. The next adventure.

Paris.

Not the Paris of the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame,
though no doubt I would go see them,
those landmarks of coffee table books and post cards.
No, for me it is the cafes and side streets,
a few tables, a bit of brightness, never new,
a place to sit and sip a strong cappicino,
preferably with the woman I love,

kissing. It is Paris after all. So kissing.
Real kisses. Deep and full of love,
a dash of passion, like cinnamon in the coffee,
a touch of spice in the city of love,
the kind of kiss that would frowned on
back in your hometown diner,
but in Paris, you imagine, people would look,
smile knowingly, ignoring your age,
seeing only the romance.

This is what you imagine.
True or not, it is what fills my mind
with every picture of Paris.
Not the place, but the feel.
Love, perfect in Paris.

About this poem.

Other than some layovers in Le Gaulle Airport, I have never been to Paris. But I want to someday. It’s high on my “next” list. I have a few small paintings of Paris on the wall behind my desk. My wish wall if you will.

When I travel to Europe, I often read books of the places I visit. Old books, painting a picture of cities and places that undoubtedly have changed since the writing. But those books train my seeing, so once I am there, I see a mix of what is and what was. And so I still see Paris as the city of love, where a kiss in a cafe would be…. perfect.

The picture is a legal piece of stock photography. Not mine. Yet.

Tom