I Hear it Rains in Dublin

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."