A week after our first kiss, You take me to Paris, Because that's what the mad ones do, True story. We drink at the airport, Smoke until they call us, I don't sit with you on the plane, I lose my phone. The bus driver drops us in the city, I realized I don't speak French, But we find a place to eat, Burgers and Parisian salad, carnal sin. We walk our luggage, like two little dogs, The tube, quiet and rustic, Towards the flat, The Tardis elevator takes us to paradise. Who does this? Goes to Paris with a stranger? And orders vin rouge and eats mandarins? People like us, and Hemingway. We spend the day in sunshine, But it's not offensive, The streets are like soundless music, Dreams and alternate universes. Where did he go? What did he eat? Where did his typewriter rest? When it was cranking out perfection? The evening comes, the cafe is closed, The barman yells "San Michelle!", He points us to the bus, And it takes us there. To meet Paris Pete, Who has hair that is screaming, Drinks, laughs and a taxi later, He gives us a real tour. The place where the men came, And shot them to death, The girl in the cafe, Pete says, Can't get her out of my head. Back at the flat, drunk and nude, Love was made to be made in Paris, The night joins us for a ménage à trois, And we sleep cocooned in our own fantasies. The Eiffel Tower is there, But he's a tease, Like a skillful harlot, He hides and we seek. Finally, the fallacy, I try to mount him unsuccessfully, But no matter, more wine at the cafe, Hemingway's ambulance provides a concert. We found him, that other day, Walking through le Rue de Mouffetard, Planted ourselves at that cafe, Where you wrote poetry on envelopes. Watching the theater, The young women drawing by the fountain, The ancient lady drinking a pint, The children philosophers holding hands. The pain one feels, Saying au revoir to you, When your streets feel like home, And your scent arousing, like war. It has to be done, Eventually, we all go back, And the memory of your existence, Makes me forget.