Your mother must be proud of you.
You had that car loaded down with your school books, those pairs of shoes that filled up your front seat, and that box full of memories.

"Belgium is calling your name, Lisa," I chanted to her before that last kiss, which will seem like a long while.

Hard to believe four of five years away from your home in Paris, will feel like your gone forever.

Your constant letters filled with compassion, and the way you say, "Je t'aime," piles upon my desk

I miss buying you caramel,
I miss picking you lavender from the countryside of Bretagne every year.

As our engraved names begin to rust on that bridge near Vastille St. I know our love will go on...