An American In Paris

He cradles her small body in his arms

   In silhouette against soft golden light.

Gone are the city’s flowers and gendarmes.

   She is the only Paris rose tonight.

 

This is how love moves through two souls: alive,

   Nothing to say, and nothing more to prove.

Off-screen, John Alton calls Cue Twenty-Five,

   And dancing colors match their every move.

 

Alone, a mess, more wrong in me than right,

   I picture you, your head upon my chest

While smoky music fills the smoky light . . .

   But I don’t dance, and you deserve the best.

 

      So go find love in his arms, and not mine;

      And I will run the lights that make you shine.

 

 

Copyright 2016 Matthew J Wells