Chesnut trees, new scrubbed air. There is, somehow, a distinct scent beneath all the currents of fragrance in Parisian air. No other sidewalks replicate the singular taste, metalic and familiar, in the back of the tongue. While this place will forever live in my mind, I know Paris will never be home to me.
Today, I can't help walking through places and times memory fogs with fondness. There are fragments that seemed less sweet when I lived them. The tenderness of ghosts can catch you offguard some moments; a whisper of what was, tempered by time and distance. The clouds and intermitten rain seem to encourage me, so today I'll walk with ghosts. There are worse ways to spend a day than remember the lives that have touched you, no matter how brief the stay.
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