Traipsing through the Jardin du Tuileries
The man wipes the mud off his wet shoes,
The light rain has left its stray mysteries
Of past storms, present ardour, and furled truths,
As the man walks towards Colonne Vendome
the cobblestones beneath take him away,
slick rooftops see him eye-to-eye at-home,
soon small as the Arch and Louvre come to bay,
Whisper unheard, he looks to Tour Eiffel
where his soul meets hers as to him she floats,
hovering they embrace, all worry stifled
heart-shaped raindrops painted on their raincoats,
L'Opera impedes the man's fixate,
on whose staircase an angel's soul awaits