I keep saying I’m moving to Paris
though I have not bought a ticket.
And my French is
something a child would laugh at.
I say it to the cashier. I say it to the postman.
I say it to my reflection
in the window at night.
I say it into voicemail. I say it in emails
I don’t send. I say it to the cat
while she’s eating.
I say it while folding laundry. I say it
to no one at the bus stop.
I mouth it at traffic lights.
Paris, I say, with no particular tone.
Just the word. It feels
like a little room in my mouth.
I think about the bridges.
I think about bread.
Mostly I think about walking.
I imagine the part of the city
where I will not know anyone,
where my name will not sound like my name.
At night I lie in bed and practice forgetting.
I picture an apartment, a small one.
A plant in the window. No computer.
I will send letters to myself from the corner postbox.
They will say things like:
You are here now.
and
You don’t owe anyone an explanation.
And when people ask why Paris,
I’ll say,
details scatter like pigeons across the Seine.
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Originally Posted by tailor STATELY
