Paris is My Lover
You are my Edith Piaf song –
slow and sweet.
Your curves like crescent moons sleeping.
I want to touch the River Seine
on the other side –
slick, like oil.
your lodgers argue over scattered cracks
along the brick path,
imagining crumbs where only shadows of footsteps remain.
You take my hand
and lead me into the rose colored evening,
as if the day is chasing us away.
We are refugees.
I have no home,
but you – Paris
are my resting place,
my soft furnishings.
We nest together.
You flap your wings
in regal display –
a proud showing off of your pavement and edifices.
Even the grayest day
can leave me breathless
for your unselfconscious touch of café life –
an atmosphere of conversation and smoke.
Cristina M. R. Norcross
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