I am deeply acquainted with
I read books of French poetry
Talking of fleurs and rainy spring matins
From the days when they looked around
I deeply long for a pencil and papier
Yet I type this foolishly on my iPhone
Awaiting the New York City subway
Carrying me to nowhere
I am a romantic
In a city made of concrete and dirt rat
I imagine painting you
Knowing that I never will
Too many emails to send
My soft heart tears at the jerk of the subway pulling away from the platform
The faces deadened to their phones
So is mine
The openness of your gaze echappes me
Anachronism has never been less funny to me
To feel in place only where I don’t belong
I do not belong here
Mais quoi faire?
I will never send this to you
Alors ca c’est l’amour aujourd’hui?
Depression is not so romantic as the French make it seem.
Shit. I missed my stop.