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Sonya placed a cherry
in her belly button
as she lay naked
on the bed

Do you want
my cherry?
she asked
or have you other
fruit in mind?

Eve tempted Adam
with an apple
so legend has it
I said
gazing at her lying
on the bed

outside our hotel room
with the window open
we could hear Paris
passing the window

but a cherry
is more intimate
she said smiling

Usually one has fruit
after the main course
I said
however tempting
the sweet afterwards

she looked at me
then picked up the cherry
and seductively
put it in her open mouth
and ate it slowly

So where
shall we eat?
she said

Maybe where
Picasso ate
or Degas
I said

And where is that?
she said

We'll ask
I said

Are you sure
you don't
want a cherry?
she said

I declined
and she dressed
and we went out
in the Paris street
and dined.
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.
moon Sep 13
dear my beloved,

i'm writing to you now to say goodbye.
the pain has gotten too much and i wish to run away,
for if we come across each other in the future naturally,
i ask you to hug me and hold me close.
lord knows i need it.

perhaps you can't find me,
i'll be in paris.
every afternoon, i'll drink wine on my balcony.
i'll look for you at the stars and if you wish to not look for me,
remember me for the least.

my love, this has all come to an end
but i really do pray that you wish to find me.

goodbye for now, my love.

from your forever love:
he made
from pain
with the
Tories from
their toils
nigh a
face still
trade marketwise
the index
that amble
a women
below the
paragon of
the future
and prioritize
the union
of counterpart
a man in tennis yet
g Aug 18
Side by side.

Hand in hand.

Dancing under the Eiffel tower at midnight.

The ultimate love story a dance of wind, ghosts at night slowly

intertwining with each other as if the kiss of death is just one moment

For those who believe in the little things, like dancing at midnight.
On my way
On my way
On my waaaaayyyy
8 hours in a car and I'm tired
Good morning
A "poem" every day.
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
A "poem" every day.
Valentin Jul 17
I felt in love in Paris tonight
With the Chinese boy

Walking along the Seine
All I want is to hold your hand

In front of this lunar eclipse
All I want is to kiss you

I want to touch you
But I don't know if I'm allowed to

I can spend my night asking you
To see you tomorrow again

The night is beautiful
When I feel you close to me

Kiss me all night
So I can see the stars reflecting in your eyes

I want to last forever in your arms
My head against your body

You are so beautiful
Just like Montmartre during the night

I have been waiting for you
In the capital of love

Now I feel complete
And finally at my place
jcl Jul 6
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.”
currently writing #5, your comments and feedback are greatly appreciated
they say with lovers time stands still,
i didn't fully understand until one rainy morning in paris. you'd let me wander aimlessly around my favourite bookstore for hours, smiling sweetly at my excitement even though you hadn't read the prose. you escaped into the morning air, i walked out of the doorway to find you and the hands of time silenced. there you were, tucked underneath the dew; the crimson morning sun lighting you up. you were deep in conversation with a lone artist, mesmerized by her work. the watercolours dancing in your eyes. i thought you looked so beautiful, that the notre dame behind you dwarfed in comparison. in that second i knew i would spend forever trying to keep that look in your eyes.
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