Q

Lisbon, of cobalt and clementine. Of faded regality and a startle of sunlight. Of graffiti inherited from old times, scribbles on walls. Sleepy tunes that make you weep at midnight; endless codfish and white wine.

Paris. My heart lies here, in the Pantheon, by the seine. Of your coffee-laced mornings and espresso nights. Of your snappy slowness and symmetry. Of the lilt in your tongue and the certainty of petit déjeuner; your authenticity maligned as aloofness.

Fontaine-bleu, your compact beauty, your winding, bouldered forests and lakes and castles.

Porto, sweet as your namesake. Narrow alleys and the sharp silhouette of masts yearning for skies.

Guimarães, of clean, quiet grace. Of sitting above the rest. Of fur-soft tones and walking in circles, going somewhere to end up where you have always been.

Cascais. Of liqueur in chocolate cups that mellows you inside out. Of stupid loopy grins. Of cold beaches and too-young people, stomping in the sand.

Sintra. A fairytale, a watercolor daydream. Of untold love stories between many, many told ones. Of secrets puffed into the wind like dandelion, bitter and beautiful. Of clouds pillowing your fantasy in vermillion and gold. Of bronzed dogs that live forever.