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07 September, 2009

Plus Je Pense A Toi

Pour les jours silencieux, j'écoute tomber la pluie,
Et les matins frileux qui me font regretter nos nuits.
Pour toutes ces différences qui créent l'indifférence, depuis,
Pour les heures passées à regarder tourner l'ennui.
Plus je pense à toi et plus encore je m'aperçois
Que le temps qui passe ne me guérira pas.
Rien ne te remplace, je manque de toi, je meurs de toi,
Et je m'aperçois que tu manques à l'espace.

We walk along the Seine, silent. My heels click softly on the cobblestones. The night sky envelops the city in darkness and a warm summer breeze swirls around us. I intertwine my fingers with yours and squeeze. Your hand remains limp. What has changed this past year? I steal a glance at your face, searching for an answer. You stare straight ahead, expressionless.

We say nothing, what is there to say? I am thinking everything, and nothing. In my heart, I know it is over. Whatever it was. Unspoken words haunt me, stifling the air around me until my heart races and the sky spins.

To me, you are Paris. You took me on my first walk along the Seine and bought me a cheap Agatha Christie novel, we browsed ancient works of art in the Louvre, braved the Catacombs and snuck into private gardens late at night like forbidden lovers. We drank cafe au lait as we watched the sunrise, loudly sang Italian songs as we walked through St. Michel, wine coursing through our veins.

I met your parents, your family, your friends. We talked about marriage, about how we would raise our children, where we would live, where we would work. You were my future.

Yet, tonight, as we walk hand in hand, a seemingly ordinary Parisian couple, everything evaporates and I feel devastated. I don't know how to build a future that does not include you. Tears drop down my face, but you do not notice. I quickly wipe them away, determined to make the most of our last days together, even if I know they are a farce.

We pass a group of men sitting on the bank, their cigarettes blowing dreamy white ribbons of smoke into the air. I sigh deeply and take in the smell of Paris, determined to preserve the evening.

We are about to walk up the stairs when a voice calls out to us in French. Hey, wait! We turn around, expecting a drunk. It is one of the men we passed earlier. Mademoiselle, you are stunning. And monsieur, so handsome. I can tell, you two are meant for each other. He turns around to his friends for confirmation. They nod their hands in agreement, and give us a round of applause. A perfect couple!, he says. The men behind him start shouting, kiss! kiss! kiss! kiss!

I turn to you, take your face into my hands, and kiss you. I feel nothing. As our eyes meet, I can see that you sense the irony as well.

A perfect couple, indeed.

6 comments:

Annika said...

beautiful.

Madeleine said...

Anait, this was beautiful, and I know it was painful as well. It's hard to make sense of a love that changes its course, but because you, too, feel that it had changed, and you don't feel the same way anymore, it can only mean this: there is a man for you that will fit even more perfecty so with you. And the important thing will be that it will not change--on your part and his.
I could really envision all that you were writing and then the conclusion: a perfect couple on the surface, but deep down the love has changed.
Take care xxxx

Wine and Words said...

I feel this limp unsated love. And to have it so mislabeled by unknowing bystanders...to have them fail to notice the empty space between you that is now chasm...

There are these huge moments in our lives where truth is so overwhelming that it begs notice and confirmation, yet we are the only audience. Lonelier still. I am so sorry. My heart breaks with you. My hand in yours...strong, supportive, pulling you forward.

Madeleine said...

Thank you for your support. What Socrates said is right- and I knew that for a great love, if it had to end, it would hurt badly badly. And you're right, I don't expect anything from him. I just expect myself to say what I need to say, to free myself.
I think you understand. :)

Vivian said...

I love your blog. You are a beautiful writer, and a fellow Montrealer ;) And... you have Sofia Coppola, my favourite girl, in your header. I'll be coming back. xx

Anait said...

Annika, Madeleine, Wine & Words and Vivian -- thank you, for your support and comments, they made my day :)

Vivian, if only I could figure out which dress she is wearing...I. Must. Have. It. Dior, I think.