Scene setting: the Paris Hotel, as I fold
the corner of a page from my Brit Lit
textbook -- story of a boy with French
lips & a Japanese heart. god, how I miss
his Spanish smile; each dimple, a match-
ing tattoo. Twice, he touched my hand
with his heaven-sewn skin. On the other hand,
my bare body lay on a hotel bed. Alone. I fold
my mannequin skeleton like origami to match
the paper cranes swimming in his Neon eyes, lit
like European starsOh, Nostalgia. how I miss
getting Lost in those foreign eyes during French
class. Lust in translation. Lost in a faux-French
Fantasyland. I want to hold his shivering hand.
Kiss him atop this Eiffel replica. Alas! I missed
my chance for our Souls to tangocrashing into the fold
of his hips. I'm not fluent in body language or candlelit
cuisines or Romance. I can't even strike a Fucking Match
against these naked candles. So I set the match-
box back by the lamp & bible. Pardon my French:
Be my Pillow Mint. Je voudrais te grignoter au lit.
Meet me in the casino. Play me like a poker hand.
I have a pair of Kings: you & me. Ante up. I fold.
Your cards? Three-of-un-kind Queens: Miss
FacebookStatus, Miss Bitch & my favourite: Miss
Understanding. Biology says we are not a match.
My heart begs to differ. Sigh. I might as well fold
these empty bedsheets. This air tastes like French
fries & heart disease & slot machines & secondhand
smoke. I am not your ashtray. Don't leave me lit.
You killed me on the balcony, one star-lit
night. You and your cocktail harlot, Miss
Scarlet. The weapon? Time. When the h our hand
struck 12, the dealer ate my wallet. Game, set, match.
Roulette is not the same in Russia & French
kissing is not the same in Las Vegas. I folded
my legs, doused in kerosene. You lit the match
on my flesh, kissed Miss Right in her French
maid costume & handed me a pamphlet: "come into the fold"