I'm a romantic,

she'd always say.

She used it

as an excuse.

For staring at the swirls of pink

like candy floss

over the rooftops

in the evenings.

For telling them

she wished to go to Paris

to taste the bread

or Spain

to see the dancers.

For looking into his eyes

when he did not notice

and trying to count

all the subtle glints of light

in between the colors.

But the truth was,

there was still a subtle fracture

that ran through her.

The bits of her

were rather scattered -

mostly misguided,

rarely solid,


f l o a t i n g

in no particular direction.

And even the pieces of her

which defied one another

were often fallen in love

with each other

and all of it

just the same.

She did not know much

about how to define it.

All she could say


she was a romantic.

Like a bit of berry juice

against a fresh-pressed apron,

like the feeling of crisp wind

when you open your door to the snow.

The romance

was a thing

that could not be stolen away.

Temporarily removed cities, dark, and eiffel tower image
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