lights shine brighter in Paris,
So they love the night.

Red paint dries on a tissue
Slowly
The same rush hue
Glazes imperceptibly
Gently losing shine
And carefully dulls without change
And softly hardens until dry,
When you can touch it without fear
of red fingers, red clothes, red smears
But still, wasted paint on a tissue
Will be thrown away without notice
And still dry red.

And our devious ways
Hide our smiles behind upturned cups
As we gaze; half lidded iridescent moons
Swirling in misty lakes,
And we raise our chilly glass to our lips
But not to drink,
For then we would be forgotten.