Tomorrow I won’t recognize Paris.
It will never be the same after you leave.
For the fleur-de-lis will lose its budding pristine bliss,
mistrals might swarm hoards of honeycomb felicity
and french vanilla custard redolence
all the way down to Marseille.
Yet, this leaning Eiffel Tower of mine can only reminisce;
Time travel back to the day I first set eyes on you.
Alone—you stood out—in the gushing rain,
clutching a dozen roses, and bottle of champagne.
You were delivering devotion via bicycle,
so that others could buy the excitable,
rare magic existing within those narrow streets.
You sold love to lovers, but couldn’t afford it yourself
because it was twice too much for your heart to pay
—until you met me
and I cherished you
inside the intervals of a glance.
Forevermore, you changed me
molded me into the vulnerable mortal I am,
and spool knitted unsteady wavelengths
my hearbeat’s rhythm cannot withstand.
Honestly, I’m infatuated by you—
fancied at your priceless virtue
which should be regarded rather highly I believe so.
Now, a note has flown into my room,
listing your name, number, and brand perfume.
It isn’t a lot, but I suppose it’ll do,
til next time you come—summertime abloom.
During your plane flight back home,
I hope you don’t forget to keep of part of Paris with you