Lara

You stroll off the meter, but you don't see me, dressed for the cashmere theatre, blow upon your polished fingers, at the Salon du Te,', hear policemen whisper, discuss suitable places to be, sip Darjeeling, don’t turn on your heel, guaranteed protection, your blonde hair conceals, an invisible connection, and all of those parties, you gave by the sea, a desperate fleur de Lys, did waves rise in rhythm, do you remember our street, where you twisted in rayon, laughed at our screams.