Postcards from an Admirer

(From the shores of the Seine, seated in the grass beneath a tree.)

Darling, Je vous aime beaucoup. Je ne sais pas… what to do.

French passersby jabber.

Their words, mostly a mystery to me, fill my ears and remind me of you.

Remember that day you recited part of some poem for me en français?

Something about l'hiver, le printemps, l'été, et l'automne?

Today I fall back in the grass, drink in the sight of un automne parisien,

and you are here.

I close my eyes and you are here, imprinted on the back of my eyelids.

I open my eyes and you are gone.

Ne me quitte pas, mon cher.