Rain died on the cobble stones.
A warm soul escaping as scented steam,
rising to the fading heavens
of a long Paris eve.

Muted velvet shadows deepen and
soften the edges of everything.
Lovers kisses, whispers and laughter
mingle.

Half drunk
and one more bottle of wine.

Eyes dance and share their dreams.
Across a private table hands meet.
Making love like secret poems of the deaf.

Subtle exchanges of body movement
compliment the symphony
of this tiny world magic.

Breaking bread from a wicker basket.
Full on night descends,
closing its curtain on the day.

Internal prayers to heaven
chase each other,
They wish this night would never end.

Dark red stains on pure linen.
Count the glasses.
Time elapses,
but it's never getting late.

Roosty