Paris

We drove out of the city,
and through the pain,
because you said
“no more rain.”

We drove to the airport
to take a plane
because you promised
Paris doesn’t have rain.

We sat side-by-side
in a cafe,
because you said
Paris only has perfect days.

Your sad blue eyes covered
by your black bangs,
like silent labor pains
you refrain from making any sound
out loud, and you whisper,
this place has no rain,
as it starts to pour.

But it doesn’t matter,
because if you adore
something, there’s no need
to run into the arms of the sun,
and even gray dull long days
will stir up a rosy haze, like
children kicking up dust.

Your blue eyes are calm.
And we walk on.