Paris is not for lovers
I have ever been there alone
the streets are beauty, bustling
Eyes up and weaving through
no room to grasp a hand
Home of wandering, watching
How else could art so bloom?
Lonely souls, feet rolling over and over the same streets
quiet in the same corners
It’s the Seine of dreaming
What could manifest,
that would leave and remain the same?
Only the fog of feelings past and possible
rises above a horizon like home
Only moments alone
give the city its breath.

Love may take me to Paris
but a lover never will.