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That’s what I want, Paris – staying close. I’m staying close to you when the rain tiptoes on the skylight window in the morning, when water splashes the porthole of my room like a waving scarf, when I hear my footsteps on the barge floor in the middle of the night, when my breaths speak slowly to my mind, when tears gently cleanse my face…

I’m ready, Paris. I feel ready to allow everything that you are to come to everything that I am, like allowing the constant sway of the waves, sometimes gentle and makes my beautiful dresses on the hangers dance a foxy, sometimes less gentle and makes banging noises outside – a constant sway with various levels of gentleness that gives a sense of familiarity without diminishing newness, and vice versa. I’m ready, but I’m feeling sleepy.

I’m feeling sleepy, Paris, like there’s this lullaby caressing my head and putting a warm blanket over my body. Or is it just my nervous system feeling so at home knowing you’re staying close, which I feel so deeply each morning after my first night with you?

You’re staying close as I walk along the River Thames and admire the red brick houses with white window frames on Albert Bridge Road, as I indulge my senses in the theatre or the cinema, as I let things happen, as my entire life unfolds, not before me, but through me. You’re staying close as I write my story, as I talk to you this way.

Half asleep, I can hear my steps as if I’m walking down the metro station with such certainty; I can smell the Parisian air, which never offends me, as if I’m strolling on your boulevards and medieval streets; I can taste the coffee and the wine as if I’m sitting in your cafés and interacting with people in my mind; I can hear French, and some Italian, being spoken from various corners as if I’m just slowly going about my day in the city; I can hear jazz as if I’m in one of your sexy venues; I can feel my body moving as if I’m dancing with my friends; I can feel my right hand moving as if I’m turning a page in the metro; I can hear my keyboard tapping sound as if I’m concentrating by the window overlooking your neighbourhood; I can feel your warmth all over my body as if I’m in bed with you; I can feel the smile on my face as if my day is complete, though I smile throughout the day too. Yup, I’m that smiling Parisian you can’t escape in the street!

You have been with me through it all, Paris, even in those moments where I seemed to be oblivious of you, even in those moments where you seemed to be oblivious of me, though I know now you’ve never been oblivious of me – you have your gaze steady upon me.

If time existed between us, I’d say this has been a long time in the making. But I see that you are my block universe, Paris, where everything happens beyond time; where all phases in my life melt together and are aware of each other. I love you beyond space that you don’t cease to exist when I’m not physically there. My awareness of your existence is the confirmation of my existence, and everything expands as I steady my gaze upon you.

I’m feeling sleepy, Paris, though something is waking up inside of me. With every slow breath that I take, with every letter that I pour out onto the white page in front of me, I’m dropping the struggle, harder than when I dropped writing seventeen years ago because someone told me I should chase stability instead. In that process, I almost lost myself instead. But it is not possible to lose myself with you, Paris. The illusions of stability that have kept you away from me for so long – let it all crumble until I’m naked again, and staying close. Staying close… I’m not with you, Paris: I am you.

londres, le 1er fevrier 2026

je t’embrasse !

d.o.