I feel like a teenage girl who had a summer love affair and is now back to school, apart from her loved one, butterflies living in her stomach with the idea of one day meeting him again.
Paris was perfect. Paris is perfect. I don’t know how someone could be so thorough to think about every single detail in a way so perfect, so clever, that wherever you go, wherever you stand, you get hypnotised. Paris is perfection and even her ugly corners are glamorous, full of a beautiful story to be told and to be written.
Paris is a love song with a happy rhythm. Paris is a beautiful melancholy that brings you closer to yourself and keeps playing on and on inside you head.
Paris is the most beautiful love story I had ever lived. She is my only beloved who will not cheat on me, who will not leave me, who won’t be tired of me and who will always be there, waiting with her arms wide open for me to come home after I had run all my errands. Paris has set me free and my unconditional love takes me home again, no matter how long that way back takes.
Paris is a painting, a poem, a photo. Paris is the ultimate piece of art.
Et elle me manque trop.