Staying close. That's what I want, Paris -- staying
close. I'm staying close to you when the rain
tiptoes on the skylight window in the morning,
when water splashes the porthole of my room like
a waving scarf, when I hear my footsteps on the
barge floor in the middle of the night, when
my breath speaks slowly to my mind, when tears
gently cleanse my face. I'm ready, Paris. I feel
ready to allow everything that you are to come
to everything that I am, like allowing the constant
sway of the waves, sometimes gently and makes
my beautiful dresses on the hangers dance a foxy,
sometimes less gentle and makes banging noises
outside -- a constant sway with various levels of
gentleness that gives a sense of familiarity
without diminishing newness and vice versa. I'm
ready but I'm feeling sleepy. I'm feeling sleepy,
Paris, like there's this lullaby caressing my head
and putting a warm blanket over my body. Or is
it just my nervous system feeling so at home
knowing you're staying close, which I feel so
deeply each morning after my first night with
you? You're staying close as I walk along the
River Thames and admire the red brick houses
with white window frames on Albert Bridge Road,
as I indulge my senses in the theatre or the
cinema, as I let things happen, as my entire
life unfolds not before me but through me.
You're staying close as I write my story, as
I talk to you this way. Half asleep, I can hear
my steps as if I'm walking down the metro station
with such certainty. I can smell the Parisian
air, which never offends me, as if I'm strolling
on your boulevards and medieval streets. I can
taste the coffee and the wine as if I'm sitting
in your cafes and interacting with people in
my mind. I can hear French and some Italian being
spoken from various corners as if I'm just slowly
going about my day in the city. I can hear jazz
as if I'm in one of your sexy venues. I can feel
my body moving as if I'm dancing with my friends.
I can feel my right hand moving as if I'm turning
a page in the metro. I can hear my keyboard tapping
sound as if I'm concentrating by the window overlooking
your neighbourhood. I can feel your warmth all
over my body as if I'm in bed with you. I can
feel the smile on my face as if my day is complete,
though I smile throughout the day too. Yup, I'm
that smiling Parisian you can't escape in the
street. You have been with me through it all,
Paris. Even in those moments where I seem to
be oblivious of you. Even in those moments where
you seem to be oblivious of me. Though I know
now you've never been oblivious of me. You have
your gaze steady upon me. If time existed between
us, I'd say this has been a long time in the
making. But I see that you are my block universe,
Paris, where everything happens beyond time.
Where all phases in my life melt together and
are aware of each other. I love you beyond space
that you don't cease to exist when I'm not physically
there. My awareness of your existence is the
confirmation of my existence. And everything
expands as I steady my gaze upon you. I'm feeling
sleepy, Paris. Though something is waking up
inside of me. With every slow breath that I take,
with every letter that I pour out onto the white
page in front of me, I'm dropping the struggle.
Harder than when I dropped writing 17 years ago
because someone told me I should chase stability
instead. In that process, I almost lost myself
instead. But it is not possible to lose myself
with you, Paris. The illusion of stability that
have kept you away from me for so long, let it
all crumble until I'm naked again and staying
close. Staying close. I'm not with you, Paris.
I am you. londres. le 1er février 2026.
je t'embrasse.