Remember Paris? Spring. 1782.
The weaved marmalade of your hair;
The early morning streaming
Like fine cognac down your face.
I dipped my lips into the dreaming
Cream of your randomly bare
Skin, amid crushed linen and lace.

I stepped down. Waded through scarlet
Of fallen velvet and discarded vows.
Imbibing the fragrance of fading stardust, I lingered.
An elixir of dewdrops and cherry nectar
Condensed into memory. My finger
Traced gallows budding beyond your house.
And a daffodil... Alone amid stone and spectres.

Remember Paris? Spring. 1782.
As I stood by the door,
You stirred,
Whispering: “Où es-tu?”