Don’t let the light touch this darkness,
In the subtle dust of dusk; settling in the distant moon. The footsteps and the blister of love. What makes Paris beautiful.
March ahead the serenade of the sleepless fountain. Singing to the chorus of that French song we listened to on the train. Breathing the frosty lake and its misty vein. Lover, write me the words of merriment. Tell me, what makes Paris beautiful.
Drenching in the flakes and heaviness of the furs descending from my skirts, finding ways out of my predicament. The rustle became soothing with the prod of your forearm, the race of heartbeats eventually gaining a span. Is this what makes Paris beautiful?
Time is still and the leaves held dews. The pain is droned in the past and left to rust as it mattered. My swirls of manless future in jeopardy. The lonely boulevard whiffed a perfume of security. The feminine regiment of the eighties leaving elegance to prevail. Now this could be what makes Paris beautiful.
Dissolving in the walls of artistry. The man with the coat niftily awaiting a quarter. The theatre with the decent crowd and the smear on your white collar, the stain of love in both our hearts. Read me out the vow as I speckle a kiss.
We, are what makes Paris beautiful.