Hindsight

Yes, I remember Paris 1979.
We visited Notre Dame.
It had been raining
and the steps were slippery.
I fell and grazed my shoulder.
That night in bed you kissed
it better a hundred times,
rubbed on soothing cream.
My body trembled beneath your soft touch.
We made love and fell asleep
in each other’s arms, cocooned
in the clean white sheets.

In the morning you bought
me coffee and croissants,
and filled the room with roses.
You were full of charm.
If only I’d known how soon
your touch would do me harm.