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the last tale he told me was a city of perpetual pleasure. i laughed at him and said that it doesn't exist. "we'll never know, mon fleur."
the twilight hour we laid on each other's silk skin and i toyed with the trimmings of our clothes while he spoke with the stars. we were children in patched stockings under quilt blankets, sharing kisses and riddle while the adults schmooze.
we are caught between time,
masquerade that we are still
unmalicious wide-eyed children who
conceived to touch the sun on tiptoes
with sweat on their forehead.
"one day we will touch le soleil, just like we wanted to," he promised.
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