She stole my heart much like a thief creeping about at dusk. Quietly, softly, and with such care that I didn’t even know it was gone. Now the day dawns and I know what has become of my heart once so tied down to the place from which I come.
She took it piece by piece with kisses on the cheek. She took it with the dim yellow light of her narrow city streets. She took it with the beauty of her Parisian bridge. She took it with the slow passing of her emerald waters. She took it with the laughter resounding through the alley after nights meeting strangers in all her friendly pubs. She took it with afternoons spent out under the sun, a bottle of wine, a book, and a friend or two. She took it with the towers that speckled her skyline. She took it with the taste of Spanish oranges, fresh and ripe. She took it with her stars, though few, they shone above the city lights. She took it with the horsemen driving around their carriages. She took it with her church, the greatest I’ve ever seen. She took it with the sounds of people, dressed in red and white, shouting in the street.
Even at first sight, she was quite unlike other loves. She didn’t charm me with a glittering smile, but intimidated me with a speechless beauty and mystery I was determined to know.
I can’t but wonder if she even meant to do it. For all that has happened, I never intended to have my heart stolen and I can’t help but wonder if she intended to steal it, or if it just happened that I found myself intertwined in the grasps of her gentle arms. If fate be so cruel to play upon a traveler the trick of unrequited love so unintentionally lured, then I find myself such a traveler.
The kind thing about this sort of heartbreak is that I know she will still be there when I am ready to return. She will be different. We both will be. But she will still be there and that softens the plight of the days and miles between us.