By Sophie Rouméas
Kiss by the Hôtel de Ville, 1950, photography by Robert Doisneau
During our first encounter, your story beat in my heart. My whole being mourned your past tears, and my soul called for your peace. Your father-pain resonated in my mother-depth— and my daughter- and sister-depth. For months: not one exchange as kindred spirits without the desire to comfort you. One day, I found a key. I didn't know what to do with it, until the rhythms of destiny pulsed again in my veins. My heart opened to love, roused the wind of passion. My body, in a twirl, my self, alchemizing, from you, I dared to receive the gem seed of Intention. What a surprise, to feel in my center the beat of desire; melodies to compose. I embrace every note from you: the salt of your skin the cinnabar of your being, my yin harmonizes with you, your yang transmutes with mine. I love these moments of delight that we create in Paris, this rediscovered music amplified in the lights of the city. Montmartre is our garden of blooming poetry. We visit Oscar Wilde in Saint-Germain, toast De Beauvoir and Hemingway aux Deux Magots, sing Serge Gainsbourg on the rue de Verneuil, walk the trees of the Tuileries, smile back at Mona Lisa, pick her rose at last. At nightfall, we return to the cosmos.