Paris

And we met in Paris again,
Like we did once a year for years.

I loved the way she spoke,
It seems such a cliché,
But her accent was rich
And silky and smoother
Than any one I'd heard.

And I tried to speak her language,
But she laughed and furthered my fears.

We would meet in a bar
Or a cafe she liked,
And drink coffee or wine,
And ask three questions each,
Till we were bored of talking.

And her house was small and hidden,
Down a street you'd probably miss.

We made love in her bed,
She screamed like a wild thing
From a wild place each time,
I felt I had power
Though I'm sure I had none.

And her brown hair on my bare chest,
As she leaned in for a last kiss.

I would dress afterwards,
Her perfume on my clothes,
While she watched and smiled,
And talked of anything,
Just to let me hear her.

And I would walk to the station,
To catch the first train that I could.

On board I would daydream,
That if I had the strength,
The will power to leave,
My job, my home, my life,
And end my days with her,

And if she were just fantasy,
Then I knew for certain I would.