Paris, silk, and something small

This morning,

I slipped into my favorite silk skirt—

light as breath in the hot summer heat.

Wearing it one last time

in these final days of Paris,

savoring,

for a moment,

the feeling of being a real Parisian.

I wandered the Marais

when I noticed the stain—

a faint, imperfect ring.

Something so small,

yet it sank like stone

into the stillness of my chest.

I had wanted

these last moments to be perfect.

I scrubbed at the mark,

too hard, too fast,

only making it worse.

So I sat in a quiet café,

hiding the damage,

watching the city move without me.

That’s when I saw it—

the beautiful decay of everything:

cobblestones split with age,

posters peeling from ancient walls,

shoes scuffed from years of hurry.

And I thought:

maybe this is the point.

It’s the cracks that catch the light.

It’s the stains that make us real.

The silk carried a mark,

and so did I.

But if I’ve learned anything here,

it’s this:

Perfection doesn’t last in Paris.

But neither do stains—

except the ones

we choose to leave behind.