I can smell Paris on your skin.
All frosted streetlamps and coffee.
The beer in the snowy garden and
The mannequins in the windows
Applauding us as we slipped past,
Cold and breathless.
We'll do it all again this Winter,
Alone in the Jardins with the frost on our fingers.
December is our month, and we'll live it
With the glass pyramid they dedicate to art
And that big steel tower they dedicate to love.
Because I have never felt so warm as I did
When I stood over that city
With the snow as a blanket
And your hand in mine.
[an image tale of 'paris' by pamagotchi]