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.
We’ll always have Paris in my mind.