At midnight, from the window of my 7th floor hotel room, I listen to Parisians chatting away at the bars below. The cool air carries their voices from the streets to my resting ears. I can’t seem to find the moon tonight. “Meet me at the moon,” I sing, then I remember my moon tattoo. I lift up my wrist and think, “Ce n’est pas la lune.” But tonight, it’s all I have.
11