I awoke in Paris with the former lover of my earlier days spent in long sectioned tiles with alternating patterns of faded neon luster.

Her tight expression seemed almost repeatingly rehearsed, while she spoke to say, “Juniper is the breath, and the gin we sipped just wasn’t strong enough to wash this bitter taste from the edges of my mouth.”

So it was, a fixated intent to claim a world without command of the lingering nights we spent in that small apartment.

Evenings drawn through observing yellow-tints reflecting through stained prismatic windows dancing along the corner of 3am.

“****” I exclaimed, as if I didn’t know the distance of our hands in that moment and what it truly meant t