paris was old architecture.
--
songs for the sailors, songs
for the tourists-- nothing, and
nothing. the light
in the evenings makes me sad, she said.
and i kissed her. i kissed
her, and she tasted of clementines,
and tea, drunk by the ocean.
and i wanted to take her
home, make her fish,
strip the pale pink flesh from
the bones, and feed her,
lemons, & summer butter--
and i kissed her-- promised
her roses, rosy and delicate as her cheeks or
pale as sand & cream, and she laughed
at me. and i knew
it to be bitter. so i did not want
to cook her fish. i did not
want to lay her on my bed,
i did not want to kiss her,
as so sweetly.
and she tasted my cigarettes,
and she tasted my coffee
gone black and cold,
and she kissed me, and
she kissed me, and i could
taste the drift & ebb;
waves rescinding into colder water.
and she walked away.
her footprints imprinted
to the ocean. i did not
count them, and i did not follow her.
