the last tale he told me was a city of perpetual pleasure. i laughed at him and said that it doesn't exist. 'we'll never know, mon fleur.'
that twilight hour we laid on each other's silk skin and i toyed with the trimmings of our clothes while he spoke with the stars. we were children in patched stockings under quilt blankets, sharing kisses and riddles while the adults schmoose.
we are caught between time, masquerade that we are still unmalicious wide-eyed children who conceived to touch the sun on tiptoes with sweat on their forehead. 'one day we will touch le soleil, just like how we wanted to,' he promised.
