Tell me about it, sprinting through Montparnasse.
What is it with this city, eh;
a sweat dried on the metro breeze.
Defeat is now officially a congruent line in my life.
I've seen crushing defeat at the brink of victory in the faces of threes nations now.
The French may be the most romantic so far I'd say,
or maybe it's the air in my lungs at the moment.
It's crisper in the Third I'd say,
the Marais.
Enchanté, I'd say.
The mind's got more space to breathe here,
to think on the nights past and the nights to come in a lovely French clarity.
A convex lens of rose gold and cotton clouds,
cotton candy cotton dreams floating by on the blue sea sky by.
And skylights and chimneys all over along the courtyard.
Overgrown, the vines are a mind of their own.
And the trees are singing,
breeze singing in the seas.
There's a pigeon in the crow's nest.
Another page,
another crease.
I'm a heartbreaker once again then.
Poor Emma
Dear Sacha you're a savior.
Or I should say the lady in the window on Rue de Minimes, Therese
The woman from New York drinking white wine in the window of the first floor flat next door,
She looked yearning at me
at the hour, nearly 3:00
and me
from out the darkness breathing heavy with bags and sweat and a cigarette.
She let me borrow her phone
She told me I could stay with her if all else failed
but Sacha answered and let me in.
[stop]
