Winter in England
afternoon giving way
to evening
filling the windows
of this ancient room
with darkness.
Yet for this moment
I am not here.
I am playing scratchy
smoky
sensual
haunting
French jazz
on my turntable.
I can almost smell
the Gauloises
and the Chanel.
I can almost hear
Pigalle
bursting with life
outside my window.
I can almost imagine
you and I
somehow both
transported
to a Paris summer.
I am sprawled
loose-limbed and easy
in an old leather chair
drinking wine.
And you are dancing
and shedding clothes
and blowing me kisses
while I
smiling
enchanted
enraptured
adoring
applaud.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
I wrote this around this time last year. But I like it so I am inflicting it upon readers again.
Art by Hamish Blakely
