Cheeseburgers in Paris

Remember the palms of my hands when you trace, 

The rivers that pulses through these maps. 

Fingers that used to glue you tight in one place, 

that binds our pace, 

each letter spirals without a space, 

its string threads the isles between our gaps. 

Our head wanders far, 

while our hearts are wincing at war. 

It dreams of double cheese burgers in Paris instead, and nothing more.

It dreams of a fresh glass bottle of milk by the bed, 

a nearing expiration date glanced that we’d choose to ignore. 

It dreams of cold cemented studios with peeling walls and paint splatter on a locked door.

Yes, you may slam it.

We’ll bicker away from the Eiffel Tower, 

a peck and kiss away from the cheesiest crowd.  

Bleu or cheddar, does it matter when its slice should end up devoured by the platter. 

All along each watchtower found,
we’ll balance ourselves on its sides brick by brick as we think out loud.
We’ll race each other down the hill,
scream our lungs out to a monologue
that only the stars can decipher what it is all about.

Dot its lines as your thought branches like sprouting vines, 

We recognized each symbol but bargained with the signs.

Remember the palms of your hands when you trace,

Your own way far from me towards your cheeseburger-less fate. 

I etch each of your criss cross on my neurons and it frazzles me at a lost,

Every corner a lover, this turn of the break up locks me out of its gate.

Our map of Paris is of no use, right here is just fine. It’s great.

I heard it was overrated anyway, and I bet along the way - 

Amidst the romance, you’ll find more reasons to hate.