Love … Mon amie peut avoir cette vie

We were meant to wander aimlessly along the rivers of France as mutes.  Hand in hand drunk on wine and scents of European Summer nights.  Making love in empty fields of golden wheat.  Dancing in the wooded valleys of all those ancient Gothic trees.  As I read to you the inscriptions of lovers and soldiers and saints carved into the walls of mythic castles only you and I will ever find as from province to province we stroll along our sweet romantic life.  Of course there will be food sauced over a million times over by sympathetic country women who were French before Paris even understood the idea of being French, so French even that they don’t have to be bigots to maintain their concept of their Franco souls.  They will invite us into their kitchens overflowing with breads and bottles of wine.  They will stuff food down our hearts saying all the time how small we are and how we need to eat to be happy and to stay in love because according to them only well fed people know what it means to love.  Don’t ask me how I know this is what they will say, maybe I am dreaming this part up, who knows and more than this who cares, as long as we are together smiling at each other as all these women laugh us into storms of endless joys.

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