I MISS PARIS

I miss waking up to the sound of the busy streets, and the yells of the vendor men rousing the rest of the Latin Quarter awake. I miss the smell of rose scented soap in our hotel room, and the laced curtains tickling my naked feet as I stand by the window. I miss climbing down the spiral staircase two swift steps at a time, and catching the buttery whiff of my morning croissant waiting for me in the breakfast parlour. I miss tearing off one piece at a time, and savouring each bite for several seconds before indulging in a new one. I miss waving goodbye to the smiling lobbyist before venturing out into the streets of Paris, and telling everybody else to hurry, hurry, hurry! I miss walking on the warm cobblestones, and admiring the flower-clad terraces. I miss the vendors -- the nutella pancakes, melting on my tongue -- the homey cafés, the fancy restaurants, the grand museums and magnificent churches. Miss the musicians, the painters, the mimes, and all the beautiful Parisians in their customary black outfits. I miss looking over the Seine, and watching as the city succumbs to the night. I miss walking home with my heels dangling in one hand, and humming along with the music in the clubs. I miss looking up at the stars, wondering if I'll ever see them the same way looking up from some place else. I miss lying in my bed by my lonesome, and thinking of ways that tomorrow could possibly match this day.