May 9th, 2006
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Last night in Paris
Three twenty-six. Cold. The rain has stopped for a moment, for the piano full images and a walk back to the hotel. How can I always, think moments after, that I didn’t look close enough? To really look, and see your eyes, your face, and the gentle strength you hide behind, to let me believe that things will be okay. It’s never okay saying goodbye, so that’s why we say, “See you soon.” But soon always seems oceans away.
Was it really a week? Why does my body have to be so frail, so fragile that I couldn’t stay awake and just stare into your eyes for those last three hours? That’s what I wanted to do. That’s what I should have done. Now all the cafes and parks and museums are closed. Now only the empty, puddled streets are open, and they are open with no man on them but me.
I came, I saw, and then I found myself leaving again; with no way to keep track of days, hours, and minutes. I had no means to hold all those fantastic sights and emotions in a rolled bundle. They just slip out of the paper, like flowers turned to dust and caught on the wind.
I miss my home, I miss my bed, I miss the hottokenai pansies that sit by my window. But what I really miss, is the today that is gone, for tomorrow will push it out of sight, and into the folds of my mind.
