My Man In Paris

Surreal



I have a man in Paris with two half grown children. They bear middle names that I am told pay homage to me.

My homme is one of a history of loves never meant to be . Perhaps one of those contacts not meant to be regained in this lifetime.

He has been back a number of times in the 20 or so years since we've met to tell me he still loves me.

It's pointless really, since he chose long ago to run away with an Irani princess.

If I were some damsel in a literary novel, or so fascinating that my life was going to be chronicled at some point; maybe, there'd be some merit to this love.

I can always think that,

"I'm so alluring, they all come back."