A KISS AMONG STRANGERS ????but they looked away and let us bloom

The street was crowded,
alive with hurried footsteps,
the shuffle of trench coats and heels,
the clink of espresso cups being cleared from metal tables.

We stood between a bookstore and a florist,
where the scent of crushed lavender and old paper
mingled with the last traces of rain on warm stone.

She turned to me suddenly,
eyes fierce with something ancient —
not rebellion, not defiance —
but love that refused to apologize.
Love that had waited too long.

Without a word,
she cupped my face and kissed me —
soft, deliberate,
like time had stilled just for this one act.

Someone passed us.
Another paused.
One woman smiled knowingly,
another man glanced away
as if giving us space
was the last decent thing left in the world.

And still, we kissed.
Among strangers.
In daylight.
In Paris.
Not hidden, not whispered.

We bloomed there,
open and unashamed,
like jasmine climbing an iron gate —
wild, fragrant,
and meant to be seen.

⸻

Tracklist...

1. SHE CALLED ME MA CHÉRIE

and it never felt borrowed

She said it like it had always been mine —
ma chérie —
in a tone soft enough to melt stone
and bold enough to make me forget
we weren’t supposed to be lovers.

We walked along the Seine,
passing lovers of another kind,
the ones permitted their tenderness.
But her hand brushed mine in rhythm,
and it felt like a vow —
one she had no intention of breaking.

When she said it again
in the narrow stairwell of her building,
the words fell between us
like petals on old tile.
We kissed before the door creaked open.
The neighbors heard, but none spoke.
And in that hush, I knew —
this love was ours to name.

⸻

2. THE SOUND OF STOCKINGS AND CONFESSION

beneath her skirt, the gospel of touch

We were quiet — at first.
The kind of quiet born in cathedral shadows
and all-girls schools with rules carved into oak.

But the silence broke
the moment her thigh grazed mine
beneath the dinner table,
beneath the tablecloth,
beneath expectation.

Later, in the tiny flat above the cobbler’s shop,
she slid one stocking down her leg
and watched me the way some women pray.

There was no shame,
only jazz from the neighbor’s gramophone
and the whisper of her breath
as I knelt in worship.

⸻

3. A SUIT, A DRESS, A CHOICE

she wore both, and I wanted all of her

At Café Séraphine, she leaned against the bar
wearing a suit tailored sharper than any man’s.
A silk tie, a cigarette balanced on her lip,
and the kind of gaze
that made women question their marriages.

I wore my best dress —
not for him, not for the world,
but for her.
And she noticed.

We met eyes across the smoke and laughter.
She didn’t beckon.
She didn’t have to.
I walked to her,
and the jazz behind us swelled like a rising tide.

Later, in the alley behind the bar,
her jacket fell around my shoulders,
and her mouth claimed what words could not.
She was all things at once —
strong and soft,
sharp and warm.
And I wanted every version of her.

⸻

4. THE RED DOOR ON RUE DU TEMPLE

where no one asked, and everyone knew

There was no sign,
only a red door
with chipped paint and secrets in the hinges.

We entered hand in hand,
and no one turned.
No gasps, no shame.
Just jazz curling through the air
and the sweet clink of glass and laughter.

Inside, women danced only with women.
Some in dresses,
some in suits,
some in rebellion,
all in love.

She led me to the floor
as if she’d done it in dreams a hundred times.
We danced until morning,
her fingers at the small of my back,
the world outside fading
behind velvet and saxophone.

⸻

5. HER HAND ON MINE

was louder than any piano

In the salon of Madame Bourdin,
the piano sang to a room full of war widows,
chess players, and gossiping poets.

We sat side by side,
not quite touching,
our breaths synced in the quiet spaces
between notes.

When she reached across the cushions
and placed her hand on mine,
it was electric —
not with shock,
but with relief.

The pianist didn’t pause.
The others didn’t flinch.
But I felt it —
the whole room shifted,
a new harmony playing
just for us.

⸻

6. THE MUSIC BENEATH HER BLOUSE

a rhythm only I was allowed to hear

She was all soft fabric and sharp wit,
a contradiction dressed in cream silk
and midnight perfume.

When we returned to her room,
she unpinned her hair with one hand,
turned the record with the other.
The jazz crackled,
a slow, seductive hum.

But the real music
was under her blouse —
the catch of her breath,
the hum of her pulse,
the rhythm of her need
beating against my palm.

She whispered my name,
and it was a chorus.
We danced without moving,
loved without speaking.
And when the song ended,
we were still playing.