Writing

Paris

Oh what a mystique she holds
Her features so individually perfect
Form a face you’ve not seen before
Those deep-set eyes, with all those stories, and that wrinkle beside the blue.
And oh what grace she carries. Not for you, though she knows you stare.
Don’t look at the dirt, no one’s perfect. Just smile and she’ll smile right back.
Be careful though, she has many lovers, be careful please, she doesn’t love you.

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