does it snow in Paris?
i've never been to Paris but i imagine it does the kind of snow that melts before it touches your eyelashes the kind that makes strangers look up at the same time
i am realizing now that i don't want the forecast. i don't want the clarity. clarity is for tax returns and office lights.
i am looking for the blur.
someone once told me they saw the Eiffel Tower in winter. how the metal bones collected white like a skeleton learning tenderness.
that which is sacred is always half-hidden.
maybe that is why i crave the snow.
i wonder if lovers still kiss when snowflakes interrupt their lips or if cafe windows fog with breath and finger-drawn hearts that disappear when the heat inside shifts
the soul is too shy for sunlight. it needs the steam off a coffee cup. it needs the collar turned up against the wind. it needs to be buried, just a little, so it can be safe enough to speak.
there is this line i read once, about how the feminine went with the feminine and the union was half-concealed how two things can touch so quietly the world doesn't even know it happened
i don't want to see you clearly. i want to see you softly. i want to know you in the spaces where the camera can't focus. in the hush. in the blurry. in the way the ground disappears underneath the drift of something new.
there are questions we ask not for answers but for the space they create between two people
i am asking if the world can still keep a secret.
do you still think of me when the weather changes?
does it snow in Paris?