You said you would write about me, but here I am, stuck writing about you.
We were lovely when I was sitting between your legs in a hotel room in Paris.
We were lovely when you took my hand as we crossed the street.
You were lovely when you had the cigarette propped in your mouth, lighting mine first, lightly caressing my waist.
I was lovely when I sat on the floor, looking up at you in awe, so unaware that a human so beautiful would spend their time with me.
You weren’t lovely when I became the mistress, unfashionable enough for your most fashionable friends.
You weren’t lovely when you remembered that you were a committed man, and I was indeed the drunk slut you had convinced me I wasn’t.
You’ve tainted three of my favorite poems, stained République, left cigarette burns all over the last places of my being that were clean and pure.
I taste you when I drink Chardonnay out of the bottle and feel you whenever the sun droops in at 7pm, dust swirling about as if it were your laugh.