Fitzgerald

It was not midnight, and I was not in Paris.
I was sat on a window sill,
looking at the cars, and the morning light
flittering over the horizon;
a green light flickered on the border
of another world, where the Earth curved away.
Despaired, I sipped my red and closed my eyes.
Squeaky trumpets twirled, tubas bom-bommed,
violins screeched,
and a drum tisshed and ting’d along, filling
a small Parisian bar.
I wondered from the dance floor to the bar itself,
looking at the glittery dresses and coarse suits.
Whilst I contemplated paying in sterling,
a figure lent next to me, laughing. It was a laugh filled with the joy only
sorrow can bear;
he closed my hand, and bought me a drink. He reached round my shoulders,
and turned me onto a Riviera, somewhere between Marseilles and Italy.
We walked up and down a beach,
in silence. I finished my drink
and he finished a couple.
And from one step to the next, we were in Rhode Island, in West Egg, on mountains,
near the Alps, where we watched others like us;
lovers, out of love and unrequited,
burning into a lucid aether,
that fell from his lips, and
poured out of his fingertips.
I wanted advice, one word,
a compliment, or damnation,
a sentence, or a sound.
But before I could pour another double,
he had wandered off the tops of lonely parasols,
into messy purses, bottles of day old whiskey, and
the asylum, that took his Annabel Lee.
It was bright, when I saw the Volvos
and BMW’s again, the sun was high in the sky,
and the eyes beneath it understood mine.

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