Fall in Paris.

The gentle quiet

of a Paris night

sullied

by drops

of falling water.

Like bombs

they fall

on orange sheets

thick and course

against delicate skin.

The drops

heard only by

the whores

who stand shivering

and naked

outside

under their streetlamps.

Here,

in the claustrophobic dark,

behind a mile-thick door,

a lifetime-deep bath,

and those sorry orange sheets,

the drops remain

as quiet as the black

which encases them.

Lost

to ears which are full

of nothing

but empty words

and the memory

of feeling.

They fall.

They fall.

No warm hands to soothe them.

No soft words to stop them.

They fall.

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