Shivers on bare legs
I saw my heart hang in Parisian fog oblivion
where somewhere within its mists
I knew I had tapped into
a raindrop that would fall and
join the ether of it all
form in some colossal perfection and
travel through time for awhile
getting bigger and
bigger, then
hit the ground and burst into a million
little raindrops that flow in different directions
losing life to
give life
I don’t want to be that raindrop
But Tuesday mornings in Paris are
marked by rain and abandoned plans
closed museums and
a French woman with the flu
nothing left to do except turn the heat up
hold our bodies together as if the pieces had
actually begun to separate while
waiting to fly through a million other
little raindrops entropically pain-dancing
while getting drunk on an airplane
Shivers on bare legs
the weight of time propelling us
in a thousand pounds of manmade machine
toward something that hopefully inspires
more certainty
This Tuesday morning
I saw my heart hang in Parisian fog oblivion
and yet again
question if anything is really certain but
death
that curls its
curious lips
toward the Sky
only to form again in some cloud that feeds us
ocean pancakes stained with tobacco in Mexico and
falls on your journal in a hammock in Nicaragua
an anhedonia washing away the signs of the
girl with the big eyes
goodbye Paris
it was too cold here anyways