The belly full of grilled
chicken & cafe le crème.
Brown. The genuine smile
and fair english by Olivia,
the waitress. The walk,
instead of run, after an hour
and a half of refuge in a
corner bistro. The new map.
The worn octavia butler book.
The 10Euro skirt. The stairs
that almost claimed my last
breath. The sun that welcomed
my smile. The walk about Paris.
The bends and breaks in the
streets. The knowing that feels
almost like home. The water.
The Seine. The posters for 3Euro.
The bins reminsiscent of West
Village. The books. The water.
The silence of sand. The people.
Brown. The bend of an elbow.
The laughter. The clown twirling
balloons. The children surrounding
him. The surprise rain. The kiss.
The unadulterated kiss. The silly
innocence of skin lingering.The
gut wrench. The wet. The cafe le
crème. Still perfect in its warmth.
The sidewalk cafe. The fountain.
The stairs. Black Venus. The Metro.
Voltaire. The bed. The bed. The bed.