sweet beginnings of October flee,

ending the vanilla air of fall. 

there only exists two seasons for the lily of the valley:

spring and fall. 

she loves the equinox of it all. 

except for the summer. 

except for her summer in Paris.

a gorgeous summer down the back of the Louvre. 

gone is the winter and the little fur, 

keeping her arms warm. 

the lemonade bittersweet smile,

lightning her face up like the city. 

tasting the glory and the gore, 

the hot lead running through me like the river burning orange true.

none can capture this woman, 

this new woman in fiction. 

love may be blind, 

but my lord i am not. 

it suffocates me like a plume of Chanel perfume.

her raw ambition,

unmatched by the stars. 

it stuns me. 

it renders me useless,

like a silver screen stuck on tv static. 

she’s more than a flower,

she is the french may. 

she is the golden sun and its beaming rays.

she is the soft light on the lamenting willows of the valley, 

a doll with rose cheeks. 

she can do no wrong, 

for she blooms.