JolieH

It rains in Paris
even while we dream
of sunny days, springtime, and
street cafés.
~
I sit across the room
rain streaming down
Windex windows.
Silence spins a ceiling fan.
~
Has culture changed
the color of my pen,
the color of your eyes?
Are we the same as before?
~
Promise you won't leave me
alone to dream of darkness
of dark city corners
lightless to vagrant vision.
~
That you are lost somewhere
in shadows unchallenged
unexplored by embryonic belief
barren to cactus offspring.
~
Ghosts whisper obscenities
warning of brittle tales
that path a plan
unravel a knitted scarf.
~
I dream you a mental patient
staring through bared windows
too poor to pay a hospital visit.
I take you home to be my love.
~
I've said wrong things
and I'm tired.
Your back at the apartment
awake from nap, making coffee.
~
I return wet haired
standing in the doorway.
"I lost myself." I say
sitting in the rain at a street café.
~
You continue to type as
Hemingway looks back from a photograph
a story unabridged
we are all yet to learn.