to match your red flats

the light must hit you differently very early in the morning

because the first time i saw you in the lobby of our building

your quilted shoes hadn’t given you giant popping blisters yet

in this two ham sandwich light your nose is made of glass and maybe pinker

but i’m looking away from it so i can’t go into detail

the closest you’ve been to a date is saying no to somebody asking

but i’m confused because the first time i saw light on your face

you acted like you were used to that kind of attention


yes, in the rain

i’m telling you the kind of rain i walk all the way home in

and still don’t get completely wet

some of both of us is imagining us here 90 years ago with our idols

if neither of us have anything to talk about we talk about

the black poles between us & the road & the car brands we haven’t seen before

the word they taught us in high school for bathroom is wrong

today started the same as every day, we woke up and it was like pepper

you don’t care for any city when it’s raining because you’re from Texas

by lunchtime blue suddenly we make our way to the top of the hill


meet at 6:30

the store i know best in all of Paris i went to for the first time with you

but you didn’t want to buy their signature 1-euro red shopping bags

you asked me to help you pick out a wine, i suggest a rosé

a week later i find out it takes you a week to finish it off

the first time us and everyone else went out to get drunk

was my twentyfirst birthday at a bar on a roof

we claimed the empty corner between the bathroom and the elevator

after that you wouldn’t shut up about how you took the stairs


i didn’t even think you were a real person til you told me

“i can’t get drunk every night of the week”

because you’re tired of everyone speaking french

but the truth is i’m tired of all the things you’re tired of

so from now on the you in the poems is someone else


two swanning swimming in the Seine

and two workers breaking to feed them



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