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fernPoems
I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard. You are too Paris to me, too Parisian. Far too French. Much different from Français je sais.   Your voice, when speaking what i know, Remains elegantly mischievous; playfully mysterious. I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard. The bags under your eyes, i know. They're blue with longing wonder. They are so French. I know because i've kissed Their cheeks in greeting, both left and right. I see them in my mirror and say "bonjour, comment ça va?" I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard. I know your face too well. It reminds me of the photos i've thrown away Je ne sai quoi. I cannot look at you, Mme Marion Cotillard.
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Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
Mme Cotillard
I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard. You are too Paris to me, too Parisian. Far too French. Much different from Français je sais.   Your voice, when speaking what i know, Remains elegantly mischievous; playfully mysterious. I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard. The bags under your eyes, i know. They're blue with longing wonder. They are so French. I know because i've kissed Their cheeks in greeting, both left and right. I see them in my mirror and say "bonjour, comment ça va?" I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard. I know your face too well. It reminds me of the photos i've thrown away Je ne sai quoi. I cannot look at you, Mme Marion Cotillard.
fern
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fern
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
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