We talked about Rome, Venice, Prague and Marrakesh, of exotic locations with beaches stretching out, and seas like your eyes, yet all we really wanted was Paris.
Paris with its artists, its grand hotels, it little restaurants and its intimate appeal. We dreamed of its delights but didn’t bank on snow.
I stand in my wedding dress thinking of Paris, as I look out of the window of our bedroom, on to allotments covered in snow and darkness, the icicles glittering in the street lamps’ light, are bars to my view.
And then you put your fingers on to the silk covered buttons down my back, baring me to the frigid air and your burning touch. And I smile at the snow, which stopped us going to Paris. Laugh as your mouth touches my naked collar bone, and your shirt presses the skin of my back.
“What?” You ask warming my skin.
I turn, giving the window my back, and kiss you. Then whisper in your ear “Paris isn’t a place, it’s a view.”
I feel your lips curve against my cheek “Then let me show you Paris.” And you do. I love Paris.
Created: Jan 24, 2011Vihar Document Media