Once you found Rome you don't leave!

a woman like her—
the kind of woman you dream
about on lonely nights,
your hand spread across the cold
side of the bed, missing someone
you never even had, a
woman, dreamlike, you made up,

a pretend fantasy.
you’d have your hands cut off if
you dared to think aloud; hung,
drawn and quartered; burnt on the
pyre for nothing short of treason
if you so much as opened
your mouth, thought too loud. so you

don’t think, don’t speak, don’t
look at her. especially
not like that. because no-one
can ever know how you feel.
not when she’s the queen. but the
secret you both harbour bobs
up and down, weathers the storm,

unsinkable, you
and her, and your child surviving
despite the odds deposited
in front of you by the count’s
lust and manipulation.
his desire for her does
not overpower her honesty,

her integrity,
steadfast. powerful anne. the
queen. and you survive, guilty
but alive, hurting and breathing
with all you have left to breathe.
you turn away, nothing left
to give but your loyalty

to your god, and
the fragile promise that your
son will be safest never
knowing the truth about you,
and you will be safest away
from anne, away from temptation
that could get the two of you

hanged. but your faith
holds out for you — god always
does — and the king dies. the king
dies, and she, crowned and ultimately
powerful, holds her hands out
to you and promises a
world of together. of a

queen, and her minister.

I don’t speak french but I’d do it for you,
On your skin, tongue and lips
If you wanted me to.

I'm going to Paris in a few days,
Definetly going to Quartier Latin and then of course steal the mona Lisa and start a revolution
Let's get the barricade boys
Don't trust the baguette

Old paper factory town.
The air smells of boiling cabbage,
and even when the sun shines
the cold air could chill your bones.

There’s not much more to do than sit around, counting our fingers.
Nobody can make it very far -
they’re either too old or too high.

Three headless horsemen stand guard before the ungrateful.

Maybe I don’t need to find my place.

Maybe anywhere could be my place,
as long as I am in your arms.

I turned the corner, entering the Italian sculpture collection at Le Louvre, delighting in the smells and quiet sounds of the museum. I walked slowly down the creaking wood floored corridor, ignoring the Dirce, the Nymph and the Scorpion, till I came to Antonio Canova’s Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss.

I gazed at it lazily, longingly, savoring its sensuality, love, and tenderness. It was beautiful, beyond belief, exquisite. It evoked so many emotions, to the point of being overwhelming. I stared at it, losing myself, in time and reverie, wishing I could love and be loved with such intensity.

“It’s beautiful, “I heard a feminine whisper in my ear. I could feel the warmth of her breath on my neck. “Yes,” I replied, slowly, instinctively, coming out of my trance, and turning towards the voice.

Our eyes met, locked, I couldn’t look away, as if bewitched, her incandescent blue eyes fathomless, tender, worldly, looking, seeing deep into my soul. I could feel her in me, like a new born kitten exploring every nook and cranny. It was slightly unnerving, knowing she could wander, at will, unfettered, and yet calming, even comforting.

As I regained my sense, I recognized her and stared, incredulously, until she said, softly, sweetly, “je m’appelle Seraphine.”  

She moved in a bit closer, cocking her head towards my right ear, and whispered, “It is my favorite, it's so tender and passionate, the way he holds her, kisses her, the way only a god could.” I noted her tone, the way she said it, with such confidence, as if she knew, from experience, what it was like, to be kissed, loved, by a god.  

She gently pulled back a bit, looked me in the eyes, like a child looking at a puppy. She was beautiful, preternaturally beautiful, a paragon, goddess like. I just stared at her in awe.

“I think we’ve seen each other around Paris”, she said softly, smiling, “and may have bumped into each other in the Metro.” “Yes, I think we have,” I replied, as she extended her right hand, as a queen would, to a knight. I didn’t know if I should  kneel and kiss her hand, or shake it. I took her hand in mine, it was soft, warm, moist. I could feel her youth, femininity, life in her hand. I shook it, gently, stopped, slightly released my grip, our hands slid apart, touching, sliding, caressing down our fingers, stopping ever so slightly at the tips, before releasing. The ecstasy of her touch. I longed for more. I heard her sigh, my eyes moved from her hand, to her lips, finally to her eyes. I smiled and said, almost in a whisper, “Je m’appelle Damien.”

acient splendor of a city's identity
succumbing to nature's
greatest trick

everything falls apart,
even our gods
of stone