You had me the second that our eyes met, I couldn't look away even if I'd wanted to. I took your hand as we boarded the train and you rested your head on my shoulder, your hair drifting in a violet waterfall down my chest. We took a long slow walk on the beach in the late afternoon, your boot heels crunching in the hungry white sand. You asked me if you should take your ring off, but I told you to leave it on, it's alright.
And when darkness fell we danced in the thunder, danced under the stars and the comets while the world shook and I felt the sweat in the small of your back while we waltzed on the edge of a grave. And when we kissed I tasted blood, was it yours, or mine? I don't know. But I thanked God for showing me I'm still alive. Sometimes I'm not so sure about that.
On the train ride back there was only one open seat and you sat in my lap, my hand on your knee, your arm around my shoulder. I kissed y0ur cheek and said, "Thank you, ma cher, for a night that I'll never forget." And you laughed and said, "I'm sure you won't, Jim!"
And hours later we were lying on the bed in your cool dark hotel room, the curtains open, looking so far down on the rainy lights of Broadway, the wet breeze blowing down the side streets, the lightning dancing with the angels, the night exploding in a neon dream of joy.
And tonight you're back home in Montmartre, and I'm here in New York City, and I'll always love you, even though we'll never speak again. Thank you.
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