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Bonjour mon amour,

I spent too much time at the gambling table and didn’t dance with anyone at the 1930s ball organised by La Baronne de Paname at Salle Colonne last night. I felt that the spirit of my gangster papa might have been with me and my wing girl Katie, or maybe it was my stellar late mama especially when we were winning the roulette in between enjoying our friends on stage and on the dance floor where mere mortals mingled. I’m not one of them, obviously; I’m a poet and we poets think we’ll live forever even with the sadness of the world — especially with the sadness of the world.

Turning down offers for a dance was proven to be profitable for my current aching back, and mixing champagne and aperol spritz — at same price per glass — was proven to be safe for my gambling and my head the morning after. In any case, my glamorous gold lurex gown is still intact and my white marabou stole is still white. And my heart? My heart is doing just fine, I think.

My heart is still my heart, trying to dictate my thinking even when I’m thinking to get it aligned with my head — or was it just my body in its strife to detach certain sensations from an expired desire? Having been absent from running for a few days doesn’t help, though the innocent flirting, and the occasional less so, which is rare, has kept me feeling rather fit even when I’m actually under the weather, just a little.

My little heart, pretending to be big, who gets the hurt from my strong conviction, can handle it. But perhaps I lied when I said my heart didn’t need soothing when I broke it with my rational decision— to break up in December, par exemple — or at least I was confused. Now, after waves of pain, guilt, and even anger, which surprised my heart a little, I know my rational conviction, my principles are what soothe my pain, because they give meaning to it and meaning is as important as life itself, if not more. 

My meaningful pain doesn’t take away my capacity to love, Paris, and I’m loving you meaningfully, you handsome quirky elegant old-fashioned and philosophical thing! I’m loving my host family, my coffee dates and bar hopping with my friends, my impromptu bouillon or Indonesian restaurant suppers, my artist friends’ vernissages and my poetic walk, long or short. I’m loving the causes of my wild laughters as equally as my quiet moments in the crowd, sometimes in the middle of a conversation. I’m loving the Parisians’ compliments as much as the times they leave me alone to read my books, sometimes in French because I can read with my heart — I’ve learned to say ‘tantôt’ instead of ‘parfois’ from Guy de Maupassant recently! I’ll let you debate the utilisation of it with your gorgeous intellectual neighbours while I meditate to minimise the number of lovers I need in one monthly cycle — you’ll be surprised how well I meditate if you’ve experienced my cheeky smile!

The river Seine is fuller than usual last time I checked, covering the parts where I used to picnic in the quartier latin, and the crackling Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 on the record player is drowning my non-existant plans for the rest of the day. I’m biting my coffee-washed red lip, thinking of you and feeling how close I feel to you right this moment, exactly because you liberate me. 

paris, le 22 février 2026

je t’embrasse !

d.o.