When I speak of Paris,
I think of my sister
in her new boots,
moving quickly from Venus to Victory
to Lisa,
disinterested and detached,
complaining of sore feet,
"Are you done, yet?"

When I speak of Paris,
I think of your examination
of every inch of paint
and sculpture and glass
and light,
the wide-eyed awe of a man
I never knew appreciated art.

When I speak of Paris,
I think of breakfast in bed,
room service for two,
fresh bread and jelly
and croissants,
a white porcelain teapot
of chocolat chaud.

When I speak of Paris,
I think I was happy there,
dreaming we would return together
someday.

When you speak of Paris,
you omit my name.
You think she'll never know.

01/14/2008

Author's Note: Does forgiveness even matter if I'm invisible?

Posted on 01/14/2008
Copyright © 2025 Meredith C Hartwell