My hair was a veil and your laughter a dance,
a romance in a weird way maybe.
It was in a library in a place called Paris,
I didn’t know anyone there but by chance.
The books all in French must have heard
how my mind was only with you,
when we met in a Baudelaire poem
your hands were becoming a bird.
Your bird then revealed my veil and my cover
in a room with a view of Montmartre.
In your eyes lived a war struck memory,
twice my age, half my length: my French lover.
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