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?