Not so long since I’ve heard Paris captured in the lens of a poet
and I’m beginning to wonder why

The city of love
is a seat of culture and a dynasty of art
and we’re supposed to believe it
A seat among rolling hills and plains of wheat and it’s all so very much the same
and I don’t see how this could be different

romance, they say
Paris is the city of light and love, they say
and I sit beneath the Eiffel Tower and I lap it up

I see love.

The singers in the cafés give chansons of love to wealthy lovers while
the poets in the empty bars love the songs they sing to themselves

The poets qui aiment on the street
are so together they never realize they’re alone
And she is art and he is art and together they are poets

And all those poets on the rues selling their declarations of amour
splashed sur les toiles for a hundred Euros
don’t seem to understand

I’ve walked the streets of Paris and found nothing but inspiration
and found I had nothing to write it down with
with the notebook in my hands I still decide I can’t

the singers chant in the bars and they are beautiful
the paintings on the street are plastic but they are beautiful
I hear the words escaping me
and I stare at a blank page and wish for something beautiful
to come

There are so many ways to love but it’s not for me
Me, I don’t have a poet by my side to love
I don’t know this city
I don’t like poems
I can’t sing

I only wish for beauty
or maybe
that the City of Love would make it easier to love myself.