The French Love

Blue eyes, brown hair and the French air;

He was straight out of Mills and Boons.

Saw him first mixing tequila with vodka.

He dealt the cards with expertise

As if they were friends from old.

The scene was set,

The curtains up,

The music—ZAZ.

We argued:

The English were cold;

The Spaniards spoke from the heart;

London was a bore;

But Milan was his whore;

Caviar was disgusting;

But ratatouille felt like home.

It started gently:

His hand in mine;

The battle of wits;

The battle of hearts;

It was to commence at last.

I asked him meekly- will it last?

‘Je ne sais pas,

But I love you…for now.’

That was all I was to get

No empty promises;

No plans for tomorrow;

No roses in satin;

Nothing but….just love.

Love that lasted a moment,

Disappeared with the fading moon.

Something that tasted like spirits

And made the head heavy.

Something that encouraged smiles,

Conversation and delirium.

Something warm,

Something pretty,

And something very French.

How am I to ever forget that night?

That night I met my French love.

The funny thing:

I left the morning after without a note,

Knowing it won’t last.


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