you. me. paris.

I want  to go to Paris with you.

Walk the streets and look at the sights.

Hand in hand as we walk around the city, down the Le Champ de Elyseé.

And maybe we'll look like tourists for awhile, but who cares, because I'll be with you.

And maybe it will rain.

And as everyone takes shelter, we can slow dance in the middle of the street together and melt into the Parisian life, no longer a pair of dinky American tourists.

We'll speak French, but then we can whisper in English when we don't want people to know what we're saying.

Sometimes we'll pretend to be those obnoxious Americans when we want to, but not long after, you and I will realize how nice it is just to be a part of the locals.

We can live in the city, but own a small cottage in Tours for weekends when we want to be lost together. Your big brown eyes lost in mine as we sit in a field of lavender and gaze at each other as I whisper your name over and over again, like the first time when you asked how it would be said in French.

I told you then, and I'll tell you now; there isn't a translation.

But saying it with my not-so-perfect French accent made you laugh, and that was good enough for me.

We don't have to stay forever, but just long enough to make it count.

You'll probably want to go back home, and I'll go with you, because your home is mine as well.

And when we are finally done with Paris, we can move on to the next adventure, but hopefully that won't be for a long time, because I love Paris,

but not as much as I love you.