A Year Since Paris

The days have fled
your streets in aching waves
that cling to each cherished memory
and in our hearts
your âme hold presence
among cobbled dreams
and arching soliloquy,

La vie est une fleur dont l’amour est le miel.*

The hours turn grey with age,
denoting fascination
with yesterday.
Were clouds ever this heavy?
We walked hand-in-hand
forging promises
on loves anvil,
the pigmentation of dreams.
We joined so richly then
that all the days
became our kingdom,
manifesting and deforming
romance as only now.
We loved so richly then
with hearts ablaze
and synaptic resonance
that worlds would collide
and die, in happiness,
to create us a home.

Entre deux coeurs qui s’aiment, nul besoin de paroles.**

Daydreams trace our steps
in three hundred sunsets since
our parisian liaison amoureuse
stole our hearts elsewhere.
Each compelling requiem
that calls out hopes and marries martyrs
to the pages before them.
Our breasts cry
for those streets once more,
to roam her veins again,
tenderness and sentiment merge
under her skin,
Do dreams become thin
as fate disdains of life?

Je suis amoureux***

With where our life began,
where souls conjoined,
to that one being that we have become.
Her walkways are our amour,
forever where our souls turns
in each new moment.
The city that is our maison

* “Life is a flower of which love is the honey.” – Victor Hugo
** “Two hearts in love need no words.” – Marceline Desbordes-Valmore
*** I am in love


Poem © Phen Weston 2015


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