It’s Autumn. Run away to Paris. Listen to Jacques Brel. Wear all black. 

Fill a mint green Ladurée parcel with macarons named after flowers. 

Argue little arguments with yourself over whether or not they are too beautiful to eat. 

Eat them anyway. 

Get lost in the flower markets and get rescued by a French man 

who smiles and tries to teach you to roll your r’s. 

Melt into his accent as he points out every stolen view of the Eiffel tower. 

Get lost in the Louvre, your eyes hidden between the paint strokes. 

Have a picnic with him in the evening along the Seine. 

You’re wearing your favorite dress and your traveling shoes are laying beside you – 

the laces are fraying beautifully. 

You’re having bread and cheese and wine with your feet almost dipped in the river 

with all its lights of Paris like stars dancing over the surface. 

The tourists are waving at you. You laugh. 

You kiss the boy goodnight but your accent still isn’t right as you whisper ‘au revoir’.

 In the morning you take your favorite magazine and brush your fingers 

over the lovers’ locks on the Pont des Arts; 

there’s a blue one with your name on it. You still feel kisses on your lips. 

You take the magazine and lay it on your lap, open it, and get lost in dreams.

Thistle Magazine Dreams/ Autumn