In another time, I may have been your late night
confessionary, a Parisian whore to your
gentle hands and overwhelming needs. I could see us
loving each other without knowing names.
We are at times both romantic enough, and tragic
enough, for that.
And if I was not full of sin enough
to beckon your fingers to my skin, perhaps I
was only a girl you met for
un café au lait. You laid
your hand over mine beneath autumnal arbres, and we
made small talk about the world. Perhaps;
we are masters at making love with strangers. And you
peu importe. Je sais que je t'ai touché, dune