She became Paris that night
we walked through her gut,
cobbled streets, blood cells
on feet and clacking heels,
dancing tongues, shimmering
insides. My city I ran from.
She glides with stillness letting
us pass. She never held me tight.
Not to plant me, not to help my fall.
I tasted her spit, scraped dirt
out of my ears. Beauty fades
in the eyes that know. New
is always sensitive to touch.
Much like a new perfume
she tickled my scalp.
Her air breathes me when I
forget to inhale. We always do
when the light hits the spot.
I don’t want to come back.
I’m keeping her like that.
Natasha Moskaljov is an emerging writer and yoga teacher from Croatia. She’s currently based in Tenerife, Spain working on her fiction, poetry, and learning how to sail.