Ton Autre Amour

You treat the trip like a pilgrimage -
proving your love to her by returning;
a soldier back from the Great War,
knocking on his sweetheart's door.

It wasn't that I didn't like Paris;
the colours lazily reclining on their canvasses
at Montmartre. Gargoyles crawling
up the outstretched fingers
of Notre Dame.

It was her ... with that aggressive,
wide-footed stance, slicing the air
with a black fist, unpicking the stitches
of the sky. Halving the horizon!
Even the clouds curl away into cinders
for fear of her.

She is everything that I am not, and knows it.
Standing slender - a flagpole. A stick!
Peering down at my curves with a smirk.

I wear my hand-knitted cardigan in protest.
Yes - the one you hate! In Paris of all places
I refuse to be chic.

That night, on the cobbles of Sacre Coeur,
I try to embrace you, but you are entranced
by her lights; a million winking eyes all for you.
She is the best dressed by far!
That beautiful backless black number,
covered, head to toe, in stars.

Still I laugh at myself.
'The lights are on, but there's no one home.'
The perfect match. The lighthouse and its keeper!

No, no - don't worry. I'll leave you two alone.
I hope you won't mind if I slip away.
I'm off to shack up with that artist ...
the one who drew my picture today.