you're like paris to me, he said.

filled with tiny shining moments under the champs,

the eiffel town framed gently in the corner of a snapshot.

you're like crisp afternoons spent

people watching on a park bench,

surrounded by cafe's and swirls of people.

he imagined me as culture, berets, loaves of bread.

he heard tourists mimicking the shouts of the people

"come vous!"

it was suddenly a dream,

he wanted paris to be his,

exclusively, entirely.

but his love affair with paris began before me,

i could tell by the scripted turns of phrase he used--

wondering what it would be like to live in the perfect city

he saw only himself and the lover

heard her rapid french,

and suddenly understood all beauty and creation;

forgetting the smell of trash rotting in the corners

the alleys dark but alive

the subsequent shudder of the underground

the robbers on the stairs --

suddenly he awakes from the nightmare

shaking in my arms

wanting desperately, calling out madly

for people to treat each other better,

to live up to paris,

and he shakes my arm,

to awaken the humanity, he says.

you're just like paris, he said.

but instead he has to beg to stay,

and hears bukowski whispering,

tugging on his arm

they never will, he says.

your paris is in flames.

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