Paris Syndrome

The Eiffel Tower erected itself in my head,

we couldn’t find the lifts, climbed the stairs.

Of course there were fireworks.

We stared at each other, rare exhibits in the Louvre —

you licked my Mona Lisa smile right off.

Of course we were both in imaginary Chanel.

We drank warm cider and ate pancakes, yours flambéed.

I got drunk, my tights laddered on both legs.

Of course we experienced tachycardia at the Moulin Rouge.

Our hotel, a boxed macaron on a navy boulevard —

we spun around in the dark outside, rain-dizzy.

Of course we slept at the Ritz.

Our little room tucked into the corner, a pink

pocket you slipped into that night.

Of course our fingers hunted for change.

In the mirrored elevator I couldn’t meet your eye, I

crushed you into the laminated sample menu and died.

Of course it was only la petite mort.