Paris Wills is a dreamer. His father always said he got it from his mom, an artist who was unlike any other. Her virtue was painting, and Paris' is poetry. No matter where he is, Paris finds inspiration for his poems.
In the summer after his sophom...
This past weekend was such a blur. Paris seeped into my skin like sunlight, setting me ablaze with tangerine beams. I became intoxicated from his touch, desperate to feel his rigid figure against mine. We clung to each other for hours, my parents miles away on an anniversary trip to Palm Springs. After Tessa died, my parents worried that it was a bad idea to leave me home alone, but I assured them I'd be fine. They'd been planning this trip for weeks and I didn't want to spoil their fun. Besides, I knew Paris would be there for me. He's always been there for me, just as I've always been there for him.
Nevertheless, tonight's the first time I've slept alone in days. My parents returned home this afternoon, separating Paris and I from our endless embrace. To ease my loneliness, I helped my parents cook a lavish dinner of shrimp and steak with mashed potatoes and broccoli. Despite missing Paris, cooking alongside my parents cheered me up and we ended the evening with a heated game of poker. My dad won, per usual, while I got tipsy off of sips from my mom's Chardonnay.
Afterward, I slipped into bed, my face flushed from the wine and my mind on Paris' brilliant black eyes gazing up at me. Even though I couldn't feel his soft arms holding me tightly against his thin frame, I could feel his love for me beating in my heart. I fell asleep to the cadence of my lilting heart, beating only for Paris.
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