Who is responsible
for the sparks in your eyes
tonight, on the balcony,
leaning over the edge
to touch the blazing lights
of the troubled city below?

You're not wearing your cloak this time.
"You noticed?"
I did.

And when we read together
in bed on rainy mornings,
your accent is flawless,
while mine stutters and stumbles,
flattens the romance.

It's funny: I've lived in Paris;
you've never been, not once.

Yesterday, I knew you
inside and out, like the
backs of my blistered hands.

Today, we are strangers,
somehow.