her skin was pale,
i guess that's what they mean about french girls;
her lips were red
as they sipped
that fruity little drink
at a second-rate club,
and her
green, pleated skirt
swished
to the rhythm of some song.
i sat at the bar,
looking at my own hands,
brown like caramel,
and
realized for a moment,
that i could fall in love
with the milky skin
of her calves.
i guess that's what they mean about french girls.
she spoke in english,
with an intoxicating accent
that became more slurred
the more she tried to quench her thirst.
she smiled at me.  
her brown curls bounced on her shoulders,
and she danced
with the Arabic boy
that had been staring at her since
that first day we left the country
for the weekend.
for that moment,
i questioned my self,
and
i guess that's what they mean about french girls.