The sun rose over the Champs-Élysées
As my cigarettes dirtied
Your view.
Wine bottles filtered the sun
In the gutter
Like the dead
Disapproved of our steps
As my ash
Coined their eyes.
It was worth the climb
To watch
This town burn
And every villager run.
Still their mouths
Spoke of dirt
The way we spoke of love.
The sun rose
But did not speak.