On sleepless nights

I stroll the left bank in black sequined heels,

My eyelids heavy with sparkling glitter.

I find you there among the art,

tear through our veins,

settle in the pool of our hearts.

 

Candles flicker their last warning in a

dark cafe where we sway like

winged  willows to a song far away.

 

Then you are gone,

a Modigliani reclining.

Never hearing  my whisper,

“je t’aime

the only french I know.

 

Image result for art by Mark Spain

Mark Spain Art

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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71 thoughts on “she doesn’t speak french

  1. Holly, nicely done. Reminds me of “Midnight in Paris,” with Owen Wilson and Marion Cotillard. He fantasized and went to her era and she fantasized about an even earlier one. Keith

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Very cool, madam. Are you published at all?

    I know a bit of French, luckily. I got a C at GCSE level in 2001. I were dead chuffed, me. This is Northern English vernacular, by the way. A poem in that… wouldn’t be overly attractive. “Y’reet, me old mucker?” etc.

    Liked by 1 person

      1. Whilst I’m offended by your ignorance (harumphhh!!!), I’m willing to provide lessons. Here are a few key Manchester terms:

        O’reet: Hello
        Ey up?: Wassup?
        Shurrup!: Please be quiet, I beg of you
        Eh?: I beg pardon?
        Wherrayya?: Where are you?

        These will help you enormously should any Mancs stumble across America.

        Liked by 1 person

  3. A love who cannot express itself . Lovely poem, Holly . i wonder why this is located in a French town , probably Paris . This could be in Germany, in Netherland, in Argentina or in Russia or India ?
    You got interesting comments.
    Love ❤
    Michel

    Liked by 1 person

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