I hear it rains in Dublin, but Paris is for lovers. I asked the sky who had it right. "Spires spring up, buildings are fit one next to another so that shirtless pictures flex the hardness of a city. Beauty was cast before change. "It's hard to recognize, the parks remain like dimples on a slimming face. A smile catalysts strange to familiar. "But his look makes me so cold that I don a wooly sweater, light a cigarette and grumble about the folly of love hovering over time. "To touch is to feel, reach out prism fingers and puddle palms upon blades where I would never lay my head. "Paris is for guillotines, and dullards looking for meaningful sex. It shoves a tower in my face, the way a man ticks, and says "look at all the pretty lights" without recalling the colors of my stars. "Dublin plays his church bells amongst the drone of city life and thinks I cannot hear. Inarticulate romantic. For all the redheads that he harbors, red was never his color. "Out by the horizon I wait for him to rush and steal a whispery kiss. That charlatan line of where and when we meet is only the limit to what we see. "To touch is to feel, reach out prism fingers and puddle palms upon blades where I would never lay my head."
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