That night in Paris I remember
Being woken by heavy rain
Falling tar-thick onto the street.
And you didn’t stir, but lay there,
Breathing, not breathing, breathing,
Your face turned towards the dark.
The apartment where we stayed
Pre-children, pre-marriage.
You found it on AirBnb.
A little apartment in Bastille
Where we brought home
Poulet roti from the market.
Dressed salad, drank wine.
Read our books. Made love.
Pretended to be in Amelie. (Everyone does.)
That same day, overcast and muggy,
We took a Metro to the Bois de Boulogne
And bickered about hiring bikes.
The heat, the long walk.
Being a couple. Being tourists.
We always went to war over insignificant things.
But I remember being in love with you.
For if you cannot love in Paris where can you love?
If you cannot love in Paris do you even deserve to be loved?
The boating pond in the Jardin du Luxembourg
Where Sartre proposed to de Beauvoir.
Green chairs gathered on the grass to watch.
And the guy downstairs home from work
Playing tragic music at midnight.
MC Solar. Puccini. Megadeth.
A photograph of you
Pinching the roast chicken,
Your pinky cocked comme ça.
Lately you told me of an old diary entry:
I know X hates his job, but I wish
He wouldn’t take it out on me.
I never meant to be unkind.
It just seemed to come naturally.
Both of us felt things too deeply.
Now it’s another summer, our children grown
And I’m lying in bed hearing it pour.
The sky is teeming and you are leaving me.
Another diary entry:
My unhappiness brings her unhappiness.
Sorrow begets sorrow. Sadness brings suffering.
But I do not remember thunder or lightning.
Only the galvanic weight of summer rain
Tumbling into a courtyard like treacle.
You move under the sheets, let slip a slight groan,
I press my face into the softness of your back.
Our bodies zig-zag. Flash, thunder.
The sky is teeming and you are leaving.
The past is rarely as we remember it.
Some rain falls when least expected.