Place des Vosges

If you ever go again to Place des Vosges
in the winter, you’ll remember
how I envied you for not needing me.
In fact I kinda liked it. Your smile
cut like dry ice. The sun stared at me
through the bare trees until I cried
in a keening parody of sadness
and my tongue grew swollen,
stopping speech.

French schoolchildren rush through
the gates like fresh tears.
A young girl in blue runs to and fro,
her face an apposite mask of seriousness,
as the situation requires.
Thank you for ignoring my autopsy.

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