It's 26, March Sunday, 4:50 a.m.
And they call it, "The City of Love," but I can't seem to understand why.
Especially when it's 4 a.m. and you're in someone else's bed.
And I'm drunk in the streets.
Visiting all the places we've gone in hopes I'd see you, like I was in Hollywood trying to spot a celebrity.
It's called, "The City of Love," and it makes sense because I still love you.
And you're in another bed, making love to someone else.
YOU ARE READING
"Love." City.
PoetryThe words written in this poem take place in Paris, where a lovestruck writer drunkenly roams the streets of the City of Love, looking for the girl he loves while he knows she doesn't love him back.
