Imagine me in Paris;
woolen scarf wrapped around my neck,
writing under a terrace
and watching the rain blessing everything
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
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.
“It was very weird when we first went to Paris to play. We were used to screaming girls and Paris was full of boys. It was a very deep scream, which was really noticeable to us.” - From Ringo’s book ‘Photograph’.