Day breaks on those Parisian curtains,
Freckles and scars illuminated along
The creases of your form
Rising, falling, plunging
Through the incense [holy!] atmosfears
The leather gloves, my silent gasp,
The nails tearing down my back
Rip me awake and I dare not close them
I can’t bring myself to distractions,
I want to be consumed by those parted
Lips all bloody rouge with Shiraz,
Limp skin sliding off
Like those paper-barked voyeurs
Peeking through the panes
Stained with the fog of the next morning,
That film-grain same rotisserie sunrise,
You tried your best
To talk me out of it again
Rolling over then,
You checked your phone
Something strange was in the air
and Notre Dame is burning.
Sweetly Unhappy People 