Oscar Wilde's grave in Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris is covered in smacks.
I went before they put it behind glass in 2011, when you could just walk up and kiss it right on the mouth.
It was during a trip where I spent four days wandering around in tune with the city hum.
Wherever there was espresso or a napping spot or a free museum or interesting alleyway, I just wandered along.
I remember what it felt like to be at his grave and run my eyes over all the smacks of anyone who pressed their pigmented lips against the stone surface to leave a token for Wilde behind.
Magically, there was no one else around.
I was allowed to softly sit, undetected and undisturbed, at the foot of this marked place amongst the thousands and thousands of tombstones.
And lean in to leave my own mark.
I treasure the memory of it so.