La Petite Mort

Well, it’s colder than a slaughterhouse’s warehouse
And sweet barmaid smiles above a black blouse
The teacup’s on the tray
Interchanging connections

The hot steam scents the play
Guilty flashes of the near future
Pave the driveway
No need for a U-Turn

Warm fluids flowing to the wrong stage
A French face pops up when they hit the wall
Got glowing eyes while my brain floods
Short circuit in my nerves

The lever still pumps blood
But I’ve crossed the finish line
The finish line reprises
The shades of melancholy of another love

Could it be just a temporary situation?
Whether a milestone or a stoned mile
Dripping wet from the sweat of my steps
Is the perimeter of the Colosseum in Italy

The outskirts of town have turned down my offers
Refrained from the outburst of newfound lovers
Though I can’t hitch a ride up from Rome to Paris, I concur
I’ll always picture us together on the steps of the Sacré Cœur


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