Alsace Lorraine

I left you bleeding in Alsace-Lorraine from the dozen roses rife with thorns, each a story meant to wound. For not often did I tell you the truth. In Marseilles, we drowned in wine mixed with tears and terrible fears, and in the shadow of a doubt I played the sun, the future husband. I try to forget Paris, ten thousand smiles And songs that said I love you. All that remains is the long cold walk Of regret for all I’ve done.