take me to Paris, she said through star-filled eyes
through which she couldn't quite see
and his shadow beckoned her delicate hands into the unknown

and when she touched the Eiffel tower it felt almost as cold as his hands had been
when he picked her up from the grass
but she ignored his ice hands
and instead
hummed to the tune
of his contralto voice
even when it raised with every hoarse breath
as it turned to terrifying storms of thunder

she lay in silk as her artist's muse
soft fabric against skin
chills sweeping up her back
goosebumps against her arms
yet she smiled

but she longed to hold the paintbrush and swim amongst the bright colour

when she traipsed across sunset fields
she felt his grip tighten
but she treasured the security
that he wielded
in his rough hands

and when he hit her
it felt like a kiss

what’s the law of flight
when do we walk on the sky
when does a feather bloom like cupid wing
bow in hand trying to set a good impression
only to face moons alone at night

i thought i shot for me but i guess i shot for them
who will strike me with their arrow
when does a bow become a boomerang
is the ocean really a river
am i only a bridge

cigarette ashes
fly on the wind,
as i stare at my black coffee,
it gazes back at me.
black sobranie,
and i debate;
of all the people,
i find it hard to see
is there something
worth seeking.
just like dust,
i let them go
i never looked back
let them think i'm bore.
you may be
a world unseen,
yet i am so tired
no words flow well enough.
i'll just go lose myself
in paint and doubt
while i stare at my coffee,
and flit around.

I remember the inside:
A little red; a bit of grey.
Rows of leather seats and carpeted floors.
But it was when the journey began,
And I sat down,
My feet dangling over the edge,
Just like my anticipation -
They told me we'll be under the sea.
But I felt us moving;
The slow hum I heard eased me.
My eyes flickered to the window,
My parents' voices faded,
As I watched my reflection.
Then I noticed her. In the window.
I recognized her,
From where we had left.
It was while I was on my feet,
Hand clasped in my mother's,
But eyes fixed on her.
The girl sat waiting, sketchbook in her lap,
Pencil in her hand with her legs crossed.
It was crowded and clamorous,
Yet she paid no attention,
Her gaze set on her art,
Her movements steady.
The girl's raven hair was tied
And I think she wore something blue.
We went in together.
We sat on the left,
She sat on the right,
And drew.
And drew.
And drew.
And her pencil left dark marks on snow-like paper,
As her hands moved fast, then slow.
I couldn't help but watch.
I strained to look away,
But the window only showed…
Black. Bricks.
Darker than her hair. And her pencil.
We were underwater, but I didn't care.
I was more intrigued by the girl
Who sat so close, but was so far away.
Practically living in a different world.
I was helpless, shy, way too curious.
I wondered what she was thinking. And drawing.
It was pure, innocent, fascination.
Then the train stopped.
She stopped.
I stopped.
Because we had arrived.
We left.
She was gone.
I was bored.
Again.

The doors slid aside at Métro 1,
A interminable tube driven by an inhumane robot,
To take hundreds to their lovers, their homes, their offices.

A girl fantasying about her lover, A man scathe in love,
An old woman enamored with The Price of Salt,
facing the young man with a Kindle spirit.

A foreign girl with passion for the city,
slides through the crowd,
And an indigenous man wished he was somewhere else than here.
At the next stop a man bids a farewell kiss to her girlfriend.
And in comes a middle-aged couple,
Enters in with a hatred for one another.

I stood for my final stop,
the doors slid aside,
and I got down.

A couple of goodbye words to these swaths of strangers,
who color my dark life with smiles and tears.
"Farewell strangers, I shall meet you another day at another time."

A sweet shadow of emptiness,
Will plague us, Will break us,
Riding through those sunny roads with,
Pennies of innocence in our pockets
Flipping as we go through the rigid world we were plunged into,
Creating memories as we go, hoping to replace the ones with neglect,
We see those kisses along side river banks,
And the heart-held hugs at Châtelet–Les Halles station by strangers.
Though these strange depths of desires,
We wished to be loved, and to love.