Sometimes when you talk to me, I go to Paris in my head.

Your hands become the Arc de Triumphe, fingertips touching slightly, pointed to the sky, and your unkempt hair mirages into an unsettled beret.

If I squint my eyes and lose focus as you turn away, I can almost smell the Seine.

Too bad that your south side accent hurries me home.

Ah well. 

We’ll always have Paris in my mind.

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