I can’t write.
I can’t find the words.
And for a writer that is very troubling.
All I can say are the truths.
I came to Paris to find true love. I expected it to occur on one of the many bridges which straddle the Seine like concrete humpback whales; or, in the cloisters of Notre Dame amidst whispers; or, at the Rodin Museum while ogling famous sculptures. That’s where my imagination said I’d find true love.
But true love, I have discovered, is found in the hours and hours and hours of mindless chatter; of watching romantic movies on my laptop in my hotel room; or sitting in the comfort of my hotel restaurant dining on French menus while laughing at our own personal foie pas.
You see, I found true love in a friendship with my Parisian that has drilled down so deep into my heart that I know that he and I will be friends for a very, very long time. And it is with a great degree of heartache that my Parisian and I have bid each other adieu in the lobby of my hotel, and about which I am still reeling.
I haven’t been able to stop crying; I already miss him, even though I don’t leave until tomorrow. I can’t wait to tell strangers on the airplane about why I’m so crushed leaving Paris; I can’t wait until this heartache turns to longing.
I’ll never be able to express how I truly feel about my Parisian. Except that he and I have dug deep holes into each others’ souls; deep holes that will never be filled by the passage of time or the miles separating us. I’ll never be able to tell him what he really means to me because these foolish words can’t possibly describe the depth.
I’m a writer without words.