Lying in your arms listneing to
your exhales mixed with the
cracked window stereo
the sound of our busy city
and her calculated pedestrians,
cars, the occasional siren.
You taught me to appreciate the
sound of the street.
Listen to life more
and music less.
I'd lie and stare at your
profile, for hours if given the chance.
Your classic pouting
French lips
that always tasted cold and
fresh, as if you just got done
drinking a glass
of ice water.
The one, long, overgrown hair
that hung down to rest on your eyelid.
I asked if I could trim it,
but your wife wouldn't like it.
"A little salt in the pepper,"
was how you described it,
your thick, dark hair--
as if food analogies
could add comedy to
the situation.
Lucky for you, vieux monsieur,
I don't believe I deserve
any better.
But, my darling, you only
sound bad on paper.
To tell the truth, I loved
every combustible moment
spent with you.
In what universe
is a man like that
single?