brushing hair from your face in paris

When we flew off to Paris
in mad love, that cold January
when I was almost too sick to go,

you held my hand and we sauntered
street to street for kilometers
because miles weren't good there.

I coughed up phlegm and left my DNA
all the way from la tour d'eiffel
to market in Saint-Ouen

while strangers in fancy fashions
frowned at me for my lack of control
and you for your poor judgment.

We spent a Euro on cheesy tin trinkets as tokens
for the kids and then went for lunch
at a cafe across from the University.

Later at the Opera house you reminded me
of Emmy as the lights sparkled in your green eyes
and off your soft chestnut hair,

I said, 'Si... CECI est l'amour?
Ceci est l'amour, et moi sans de roses,'
but you didn't understand.