Non-Erotic PoetryChronic Lovealong the Champs-Élysées
Paris on our clothes
chronic love in our pension
behind the door that wouldn't close,
we both smoked cigarettes, back then
swallowed too much cheap red wine
had sex ever morning
and again at dinner time,
we both said we were writers
poets of the street
who kept each other warm
through that winter without heat,
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English
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