Even the pigeons are dancing, kissing,
going in circles, mounting each other.
Paris is the city of love,
even for the birds.

In Paris people love and regret, kiss and be happy.

I cry and wonder
how I'm going to fall asleep
because sleeping means waking
and going through all this again

I am the cure and the disease.

I visit him a few times downtown
while he paints.
We talk about how he's going to Spain
for the fall semester
and he shows me a painting he did
and points to this one part,
a bridge, and tells me he thought of me
when he painted it.
It is so sad
how knowing something
so small
can make me so happy.

How does somebody know you love them if you keep it to yourself.