It's a girl. The tall blonde whimsical kind. Not French. An American this one, from Oregon. The kind that wants to dance in the living room and blast the Black Keys 'til the speakers blow out. She's an electric breeze. Like fire on dry ice, a cool white hot. An undergrad in Paris, still in the honeymoon of life before shit starts getting all real. She's intriguing to me like so few are. Life the four-leaf clover you'd pick up and say, "Huh, well would look at that." Then a strong wind catches it and carries it away, and she falls to the grass again down the way. Maybe a leaf's missing then, and you never find her again.
Sometimes I hate this city, especially sitting here a la Champs de Mars. There's that cheesy love in the air that smells like old gouda. That boring love, the hand in hand walk or the arm over the shoulder. How uncomfortable. I need an excitement in my soul with a passionate lust, and a mellow love. A spliff love that has us both dancing by ourselves, and a look at one another, daunting with a sly grin. A sly one. This girl of the West, from Salem, seems sly to me. In her post-modern jackets and daring eyes. Rachel.
