a place where we've stayed before
across the street three floors up
chilled hands clenched
Bavarian beer in a mossy cemetery
I won't hum that tune ever again for us
Piaf in the thawing garden, the ides of march
a tingle in my heart
skinned blushed crocused poked
pedals pressed, your hand on my forehead as I soaked
heartburn in the claw foot tub
too much brie and burgundy
cavair in my molars
a merlot moustache
all I ever want to do is my favorite thing
Ill rush and spill and trip just to get back to it
a down feather against wind
