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The Last Day in Paris

Our last afternoon in Paris: open lips crushed together, whispered thoughts bound by the shrouded light, vows called out by lovers moving silently through foreign rooms and adventures; doors close, hearts on fire, imprisoned with no way back. Our last day in the city of light: the falling sky drapes over hungry shadows silently devouring the streets. The last streaks of sun fall victim to what time we have left, our words unspoken as the sounds of the street vibrate through the open bay windows. We make our way to the nearly empty café on the corner, refuge from having left behind an unmade bed, torn apart sheets and pillows on the floor. A familiar face, the old man, nods to us, sucking down his afternoon coffee, surrounded by swirling cigarette smoke. Our usual waiter does not linger, going inside to sit down before the cold bites hard into his knuckled hands. The faltering afternoon shadows curl around your toasted auburn hair, grazing your cheek as I push back a stray hair. I always had one rule, to never fall in love again and; if that failed, never to fall in love with someone who didn’t love me back. I shake my head, knowing you had broken into my heart; a thief of time, haunting my dreams with nothing left to take away from our gamble together. You looked at your passport, the blue stamp hard and fast, the only one on the page. On our last day in Paris, the street begins to fill up, our waiter reappears, the old man in the corner table is gone. Love in Paris is like that: a brief moment to hold and remember.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2018




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