I tried to forget But you grew roots around my ribcage And sprouted flowers Just below my collarbones All day I pluck their petals But I have not yet ascertained Whether you love me Or not

I drew you in charcoal Until my hands were black and cracked I painted you in watercolour Until my arms were stained blue I wrote about you in my #poems Until my pen ran out of ink And I etched your name into my skin Until the blood ran down my fingertips

Paris Paris is a boy, old of years but young at heart, vitality sweet as wine thrumming through his veins. History stains his hands like blood, revolutions criss-cross his back like scars, and freckles pattern his shoulders as monarchs long gone. The ink that drips down his shoulder blades are the words of poets and writers, the paint on his arms belongs to the artists and the song on his lips is that of the countless musicians. He is Apollo and Adonis, Ares and Dionysus. He's seen war and love, death and #life, poverty and wealth. Cracks run deep below his skin, buried under years gone by, but still lingering, ever present. He steals through the darkness, quiet as a shadow, leaving a trail of stars. He is vigour and youth personified, but inside he is stooped and withered, worn away over time. His flaxen hair falls down his back like water and his green eyes flicker with knowledge and mirth and sadness and pain. There are things we don't know about Paris, secrets blown away by the wind and mysteries that twist through alleys. Paris is Narcissus and Nyx, Morpheus and Eros. He is a philosopher, a poet and an astronomer. Paris is everything and anything, a flash of light and a sweep of shadows, his dirty secrets buried under the surface. He is the past, the present and he future. He is now and always will be.

what am i without you? a breath of wind a grain of sand a drop of water half a soul half a heart half a being