Those old letters you folded into
Your stolen copy of A Tale of Two Cities
Fell out when I was dusting your shelves.
She wrote you half in French
Fumbling over English words
Like’ bankrupt’ and ‘loneliness’
Asking you to help her pay the rent
Come back to her, come to France.
I can see her in her tan tights and slight heels
Doing your laundry and putting all your
Little pieces of paper
In folders, trying to help you.
But then she never did understand
That you keep your secrets
In other authors great works
So they soak up more meaning between
worn pages. She loved you.
She showed it by cleaning your office.
You resented the way she organized your
Nietzche notes and pictures of nudes
Was it the language that got to you?
Her words accented, mostly about cooking
Yours brusque all metaphysical
She loved you like you loved Plato
A foreign figure, too far gone to touch.
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