High above Paris,
holding tight to the arms that held me
whenever I thought that holding on meant weakness,
to the arms that said
The city of love
and its mellow talk, its sweet scent of crêpes
on every corner of its streets.
The cafés filled with beautiful people,
glasses of wine, always left half full.
A city of love,
because of its calm and tender kisses,
roses and chocolate,
and everything so soft, so lovely.
And here I am,
high above Paris,
holding tight to these arms, to a love so raw,
so cruel at times.
Maybe I never understood the idea of love,
maybe I never will.
L’amour has broken me in places I never knew existed
and healed scars I thought would remain forever.
But it was never easy,
it was never Paris.
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