Récit

We were never lost as young people say. Belief in
such aimlessness leads to romantic errantry.

Europe was grand, Paris sunny and soaked. The marsh
city sweat like a pied-noir stuck in Oran. We kissed coolness
and conquered Sun's tyranny.

Night winds lifted floral scents of The Tuileries uphill to
Montmartre. The Seine ran laced black. 

The lone white beacon, a suicide's face, floated past. 
We summoned passersby in tolerable French. All were comforted 
when Authorities calmly fished the body up.

Later that night we fucked passionately enough to forget death,
finding life worth the oblivion.

to HeJ

-"Qu'importent quelques vagues humanités si le geste est beau?"