Tomorrow, Paris!

Yes, I'm going to Paris for the FIRST TIME tomorrow.

Decided I'm going to wear black the entire time. Well, plus my new pink Keds sneakers. Because the coolest item I own right now is a black "Ain't Laurent" cropped black sweatshirt. And when I say "coolest"-- I mean easy and comfortable.

My style, as of late - has been all about soft and stretchy. And I strongly believe that every girl's hair should be big and billowing with curls. And very bouncy.

So I'm taking my soft and stretchy style to Paris, with my big bouncy curls. And we'll see if the Parisians can spot the Cajun Girl.

Seychelles

Maybe sometimes it's ok that he's in your head. Every sentence that he's said to you, only you have heard them. And only you get it. No one has gotten me like the way you get me, he says. It's grammatically incorrect, but you feel a rush anyway and think he's clever as hell.

And in your head, you & he have a special place somewhere on the border of Nolita and Soho. The kind of place that always has Strawberry Abita's when you crave them. With sweet, kitschy photographs of 90's memorabilia and Kandinsky replicas. It doesn't even have a name; it's just called "our place" and you both know to meet there every Thursday at 5:30pm...For a little bit of T.I., some Seychelles and a whole lot of i'm-crazy-about-you's...because in that place, it's always Christmas morning. His hand's on your thigh, your heart written on your face and his eyes telling you everything you imagine your husband would say, promising you the universe. And he smiles yearningly when you say "I'm naming our daughter Tallulah and our son Fritz, not Fitz, but Fritz. Maybe Meaux if there's a second son."

And he says "I can't wait, Babe."

Perhaps all of this exists inside your little head. But it's yours. And it's real. And no one can break it apart.

My Hundredth Attempt at Writing Poetry...

his pulse felt hard on the heels of my whims
our eyes locked and instantly i was jerked in this cyclical wind of wonder and nervousness and...hope
i was fearful, yet inflamed.

he then did this little dance, breathed a little too close to my face, and i finally noticed the hue of his bright eyes.
They were the same color as honesty, as sex, as the eyes of the other guy trying to see Soho's lights from my balcony.

he dared me to stay with him, in a romance that can rival any Shakespearean love and said "i'll never let you go."
under the haze of the Nolita smoke cloud, I said show me your streets, your crevices, your corners. and i'll show you mine.

at midnight, he became brazened
teasing
delicious
my legs intertwined with his, my tenacity no longer mine to control
he showed me so many things, tastes, smells.
his different smiles.

Now vs Then

Disappointment. It'll come crashing in with a triumphant thud, piercing the air with its siren. It's like having an unwanted houseguest on the first weekend of spring when all you want to do is drive around to look at all the gorgeous azaleas. Or if you live in a pre-war NYC apartment, it's the sound of the ancient furnace turning on at the sign of the first autumn frost – loud and rude. Either way, it's un-deterred in the way that it permeates your heart, your smile. 

Whether it's the waiting and waiting, the relentless waiting for that little miracle that you first dreamed about when imagining a life with Mr. Right. Or when you see that no matter all your efforts at being charming, the fire between you and him is just…all but diminished. And he no longer tells you all the joyful little things he used to tell you that made you completely combust with a new light, a happy dance and made every day an amazing hair day. Or he's too tired to explore all your places, when before – he was insatiable when it came to your body, your face, your laugh, your thoughts. 

And each new day, you look at him and wonder what he sees when he looks at you. The Southern spitfire with a dazzling smile that made his insides do somersaults or just the same girl with the same pajama pants he goes to bed with every night? It's a dance between you and him that became almost too easy. Complacent. Comforting. A warm cashmere sweater. When instead, you wanted the taste of a intoxicating sweet sancerre. And that's the current disappointment.