keeping the windows open
we invited in
the sounds and smells
from the street below

the boulangerie opposite
the pâtisserie adjoining
the bar tabac on the corner left
the early morning cleaners
coughing Gauloises curses
shouts and moped engines revving
the chop and chuckle of the butcher’s cleaver

the Paris sun filtered down
through narrow stone valleys
warming our arms and shoulders
leaning on the balcony railings
the universe holding us together
the space around us impartial
the air we shared vital

stepping inside you disappeared
I heard the door shut like gunfire
the echo of your footsteps on the stairs
the distant voice of the concierge
as you bolted into the street waving
head turned to blow me a kiss
which I duly caught and returned

but you were gone again
like the breeze that wasn’t there
only the image of your red dress
burnt on my retina
your lips hot on mine
our lovemaking exhausting
time distorted in a city rush

we ate the frangipane tarts
sprawled on the bed half-clothed
the heat rising from the morning
as if Provence had ridden here
bareback on a Sahara wind
each glistening apricot oozing
southern promises of heavenly delights

keeping the windows open
we invited the world outside
to listen in to our world inside
our room above the street below

4 thoughts on “apricots

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