There’s always something about Paris that makes you float away into a dream that makes staying awake useless. A stained memory of what could’ve been to what it turned out to be. Oh Paris, you take me back to a time when I thought you would flood into my veins like the blood could never overflow. Like my wound was held together by a bandaid that could not split wide open. But it did, I bled into you and went with the flow. I need to fix this wound, that’s what the broken do. So, I will come back to your golden sunset where Arc de Triomphe meets the busy runway of Champs-Élysées, until then keep your streets shining and I will keep my eyes open to fall asleep when I come to you. That’s how you will fix the broken in me.