A curious glance

Did he see me?

I saw him.

He would make a lovely portrait,

brown hair curling at the ends,

soft eyes so deep that you could fall into them forever

skin like an angel’s...

what a thought...

I found my angel in Paris

A second glance

He has a camera, not the sort tourists carry

He is a photographer

Beauty in search of itself

The wonderful irony of it all!

What if I said hello?

And a few smiles later...

‘Sure, I’d love to’

He’d take me to a cozy little café

down a block or two

We’d chat about Paris, the places he’d been,

and the places I wanted to go...

But to become lost in one’s own thoughts is dangerous.

Loud, intrusive, screeching-

but doing so in vain, for one boy with a camera

Is no match for steel, iron, and glass-

No matter how instantaneously repentant

My angel just lost his wings