What We Do In Paris Is Secret

What We Do In Paris Is Secret by A Lab on Fire

After the dappled shade of chestnut, a narrow lane. After opening the windows, satin sheets. A passerby exclaims his love.

Sunlight bounces off the neighborhood balconies. I’m going home after this dream. Unspoken, but not unknown.

You don’t need to tell anyone—we know and, after all, that’s what matters. The lingering feeling of our skins touching. A sense of myself far away and entirely present.