Upon rooftops of old Paris
we drank cheap wine
and swore to make them hear us,
it’s all over the very next day.
Squared tops of the world
where secrets float from drunken tongues below,
of shouts and laughter in a one night stand with Saint Germain.
Father: It seems to me that we’re on a stage my love.
Mother: Our truth is script,
Father: Our passions rehearsed,
and the golden lights that make this city Molière-immersed.
Aside: Mon Sang être la derniere verse!
The verse which exudes its own curse,
but not tonight.
Tonight I am Peter, you are dollface.
We jump off roofs and glide down the Champs Elysée,
and the only curse sont les rêves.
It is cruel because I know that as grey eyes open
In half moon street where dreams are bread crumbs blown on the carpet, and my verse falls apart like old cigarettes in coat pockets.