Paris raiinK. Barratt


It rains when I come to Paris.

It always rains, no matter

The time of the year.

It rains in that Parisian way

That is not quite here nor there,

Like a fleeting kiss from

A mischievous kid, that

One feels, kind of, and when

Turns around he is gone.

There is something about

The rain in Paris. Something mellow

And demure. Elegant even.

As those girls walking on flats,

Who seem to slide in stilettos

Of shinny, patent leather.

Something Fitzgerald-y and Zelda

Like. Something soft, alive,

Each drop a caress I don’t run from.

Wet from Parisian sky kisses.

I sit in a café, shivering, delicately,

The last notes of the piano

At the blues bar.

And I see the grey and blue and violet

World around me, the silver

Streets, the people leisurely

Walking by. And I know I

Am not the only one

Being worshiped by the rain.

In the misty, drizzling interlude.

we all are making love to it.

In our own, very personal way.



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