when in paris, think of me

To the American in Paris

I’m sorry my letter will never reach you

And perhaps it’s better this way

That you never realize how

I almost blessed your face

And dared to call you mine

Dared to reach under your sweatshirt

And search for the proof that I swore I had

Dared to be the opening to the ending you secretly craved for

And be the reason your hands shake in fear

To my American in Paris

I hope you’re doing well

And I hope we remember things differently