Happy at Last in the City of Light

She is not like you, my sweet.
She's willing to be seen with me.
She smiles when I'm next to her.
She even likes to hear me speak,
And this is not like home, my sweet.
The sidewalks teem with couples,
Like my new/old love and me,
Who stumble on the cobblestones
Between the bistros and the bars
On these Parisian streets.
We stay out late. We laugh,
And I believe that I am happy,
Something that I haven't been
Too often on your continent,
When I'm near you, my sweet.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 67 times
Written on 2017-09-24 at 18:27

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