Tuesday, December 4, 2012

There will always be Paris.

I am reading your lies again tonight- 
They are crumpled up on yellow paper,
Obvious and unflattering,
Like a displaced orphan on the earth’s underbelly.

I asked you to wait while it snowed
In the middle of the ice rink where we met
But these days I hear strange things:
I hear that there is something-
 Something quite special about Parisian evenings
And the women swimming in them and their silk scarves
Their pouts at words like ‘popularity’ and ‘graduation’;
I hear that on the metro, between bursts of music,
People are trapped by how European they are
And they stare into your soul’s balance sheets.
I hear they don’t forget to say things like excusez-moi
Or sil vous plait or cherie while they make you dizzy
I hear they will gladly give up their seats for you
If you are a pencil skirt with a certain je ne sais quoi
I hear that every man who hopes for love
Must walk by the Seine.

I hear that Paris, it is a city made for falling in love,
That there will always be Montmarte
Or the Champs-Élysées, if I pleased.
I hear that while there is Paris, there is love.
But perhaps that is simply because
Pont Neuf dances to a script
Because in French, alone is lonely.