You see,
it's about
black coffee
and Chanel
and flowers
and rainstorms
and lace
and long skirts
and mornings
and black tights
and midnight
and autumn
and crowds
and Paris lights
and the night sky
and ballet
and Victorian poems.
Not about the air
or the stares
or the people
or the regard
or the shock
or anything.
just the sunsets
and the violin
and the ocean breeze
and the haze
and the mist
and the fog
and the grey days
and piano keys
and hot tea
and soft hair
and wet leaves
and white shoes
and blue eyes
and azure skies
and rolling dice.
and French words
that we don't understand
and cinnamon candles
and dancing,
gracefully
just like a feather
or a whisper,
in the wind
drifting
light
light
light
light.
because it's not about anything,
it's about nothing;
about
being
and
feeling
and
living
and
speaking
and
breathing
nothing,
but no one
can be nothing
and that's what
we
can
not
understand
and that's why
we can't succeed,
but for now
we can try;
because it's just about the black coffee
and Chanel
and flowers.
~fin