If your hand suffered to pass my lip
And leave it its natural pink, or perhaps a blush warmer
It would be a day momentous in its rarity
It is like our lives only mingle in a dream, and awaken, startled
As if we are strangers
I find it strange that I often dream of people I do not know
And I love them more than any other I have ever loved, awake.
Perhaps you are the man in that dream
And I, the girl
Who long for the other, pine for the other, and perhaps
Die for the other
Pardonne-moi, Colette, j'ai noyé mon coeur dans la Loire.
You say to me
I scoff at the idea- you take my hand and air is suspended above my throat
But let us speak no more of beautiful châteaux that rest above reflective rivers
Like a dainty figure smiling in the mirror
But, please, let us think of the woman who wears the diamond barrette in her long auborn tresses
And the man who sings with rose petals clutched between his teeth
Of the women who wears the barrette and loves to smell the flowers parfum
And the man who sings and is brave in confrontations
Of the woman who wears the barrette and loves and smokes cigarettes like she is cold
And the man who sings and is brave and drinks vodka like it is water
Of the woman who wears the barrette and loves and smokes and falls on her crimson tresses many a time
And the man who sings and is brave and drinks and admires the strength of his hand
Of the woman who wears the barrette and loves and smokes and falls and will never lose her poise, never
And the man who sings and is brave and drinks and admires and will lose his heart in the river many a time more
I should hope it not bloody the beautiuful la Loire.