you hold still
while i paint
a degas green upon your face

opium den pedestal placed
red blood cells floating
in absinthe swollen disgrace
our clothing disintegrated in the corner

i open my eyes to ask you,

“how long have we been in this room, my love?”

you pull me onto your hips
causing me to rise into a moan

high enough to see
through the window
paris is no longer burning