Imagine me in Paris;
woolen scarf wrapped around my neck,
writing under a terrace
and watching the rain blessing everything
that breathes.
Imagine me, struggling to snatch every second
and paint in on this page;
the gentle steam floating up
from fresh coffee,
the purple skin of grapes caught
on my back molars, sweet.
I watch the leaves on the potted plant wake,
stretch her fingers towards the cold, wet sky
and sip.
The avenue sleeps.
Some grandmas and grandpas chatter
on a walk back home from the theatre,
their soft, aged hands
never leaving each other’s warmth.
Imagine me in Paris,
watching everyone fall back in love.
—  Schuyler Peck, Afternoon in Paris