I sat in front of the Notre Dame, every
morning for a week that September,
buttery chocolate croissant flaking
into a wax paper bag. Cool mornings
and takeaway caffe creme found me
folded cross-legged into the scenery,
making up stories about other straggling
tourists translating "Oooh la la" in dropped
jaws. Locals studiously ignored
the epic elegance posed as a church, and I
had everything I ever wanted, except
for your sleepy, silly smiling kiss.
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