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Mon Amour

I love you in that little French café
just south of Paris, where the moths swooped
low under the white canvas awning
to flutter drunkenly around the softly
glowing lamps.

The air was sweet with the smell of damp
cobblestones and the fresh Coreopsis
that sat in a blue ceramic vase
on our table, their yellow heads cocked sideways
like curious birds,
watching as I leaned across our
half-eaten Crème Brulée to whisper something
in your ear.

I love you in that café and I love you now
in our American kitchen, sitting
on the counter, telling me about the old man
in front of you in the grocery store,
who definitely did not have 15 items or less
and how you helped him anyway when
his bag broke in the parking lot.

The air is thick with the tomato sauce simmering
on the stove, but I smell Coreopsis
when I lean over the cutting board to whisper
in your ear the words from that little French café,
just south of Paris:



“Mon cher, je t’aime”



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