Her thoughts found the Paris address, dripped with evening dew. You wouldn’t think intrepidity mixed with shy so ironically. “…Dites garcon, un pernod” as Hemingway’s said, read at sunset. “Yet, all these downcast eyes”, she lowered to her own blank napkin. It happens when waiting for neon rain to turn to milky snow. Cold in the throat. Wrote with an icicle in spring. Showers, flowers, monuments lit in romantic moonlight. Sighs can’t disguise, why doesn’t she look up?  Not so far as where mind paintings are framed, but right into real life. Still, the same, sans wormwood.

Good enough of a bite to write tonight. Tight, as they said, read, described by her brightly dim Parisian night.


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