…and with that, they saw the look of love, both conflicted. One spoke as softly as one could, looking as they had done into a thousand faces; the other thought only this, a sweet caress of their partner’s soft lips. The other spoke whilst the other listened, confounded to two balanced positions.
No sooner as the film was over and the credits rolled, so too did a tear roll down her cheek, and the man of her dreams cast into sleep.
By Sam Fawcett
Parisian Poetry 