when death is romantic; cimetiere pere lachaise

paris, you make me feel

because I am alone 

I can feel the way his hands run down her back

and I watch their lips move in silence

I can feel his kiss passing 

before she rises to use the washroom -

i can feel her forgetting what it feels like to miss him

a carafe of Bordeaux is as refreshing as water here

but its harder to swallow past the lump in my throat

and the lights wont stop illuminating

the water that drips down their rosy cheeks

the weather sad and the people wet 

but strolling, always strolling

as if they dont feel it

I like those heat lamps that give parisian faces devilish halos

letting you sit outside in the middle of february 

wearing only a knit sweater and a scarf

lighting one cigarette after the other

drinking dense coffee under the stars

i keep thinking about how i left that place 

where I thought I knew myself 

and i realize that here I am someone different

still seeking words to decribe the way it feels but

the words do not exist

I am alone, again and always, i suppose

and them, they, she and him, you

are together 

in crowds of two or three or four

voices louder than automobiles passing in the cobbled streets

I haven’t found what I am looking for yet

but here, there is time to search