My room has lace curtains;
The neighbor's yard light creates an illusion on the opposite wall,
Making it look like a curtained window, too,
Though it is only wood and plaster and fleeting patterns of light.
I have been dreaming that I was in Paris, with you;
Your skin as smooth as cafe au lait,
And yours still the most perfect thighs my shadowed room has ever seen.
We went out, sometimes, in this dream, to the Eiffel Tower,
And "La Vie En Rose" played constantly;
All of that may be cliche,
But your French accent was still killer,
Just as it always really was.
In this dream, I still thought I was pretty,
And I was going to wear red for you;
I was holding something slight and silky when you let me know
That, for all that I am
And for all that I am not,
You were going to go.
I woke up to the faux lace on my wall,
And knew that those words weren't really yours,
Weren't really anything you would ever have said to me,
Because you're both too distant and too kind;
And yet, still,
Though I seemed to be looking at a dim curtained window,
I knew, just like I knew then,
That I couldn't pass through it,
Or to anyplace,
As long as I am wide awake and so many miles and years away from you;
The only place I can get to from here, is tomorrow,
And that has nothing whatever to do with you,
Except maybe some cafe au lait
In the mug I filled for you
When you were here and it sat forgotten
Through kisses that belonged to a different life.