Comptine d'un autre printemps

I keep imagining things that never happened, dream of people I never met. Nothing is ever as grand as the plans I draw like chalk outlines on my bedroom floor. Some nights I think it's all that matters in life, when I wake the morning after my lungs are always filled with water from the lakes up north.

For the first time in months I miss Paris. It's something about the way the air feels at spring and I picture carousels and magnolias in the Jardin des Plantes. This morning: the next door neighbor passes me in the hallway, his lingering scent and my voice whispering to him as if on auto pilot. "Play me something from Amélie".

I imagine him watching me as he plays, just now, a few minutes ago. The waltz starts slowly like a heartbeat, then escalates, just like my hand between my legs, slowly then faster over the razor thin layer of Dolce & Gabbana silk and the soft, wet warmth underneath it.