Oh Paris, your pastry is perfect. I’ll eat you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Paris, you kept me up until 3am and made me shy on the phone. You laid a blanket in the park and spread it with saucisson sec and fromages qui puent and we drank Champagne at two in the afternoon on your big day. Paris, I watched the eight o’clock news alone in your apartment and ate chaussons aux pommes in line at the movies, and I bought your small modern packages delivered by the small trucks that block your ancient streets.
Oh Paris, you gave me skirts with rabbit-fur trim and danger-sexy designer bags on sale. You told me I looked like Cleopatra. You said j’ai envie de te faire l’amour and you brought me croissants in the morning, and oh Paris, you looked away when I walked your streets red-eyed, holding a wad of Kleenex. You made me say stupid things and stay too long and we were so lonely together, you and I.
Paris, now you’re making me write like Allen Ginsberg in “America.”
Oh Paris, Sundays in Seattle aren’t the same.