–Passing the hotel from [that cheesy chick-flick you love, secretly–see? I’m still not telling] on New Year’s Eve while the fireworks we couldn’t see–could only see echoes of color from in the English sky–burst behind buildings and we were breaking up and still, I loved you, I loved your height, I loved your laugh, I loved your yellow hair. Yet I did all the breaking. We dropped our champagne flutes on the sidewalk, a pretty pile of glass, and I lost a bejeweled shoe on the escalator.
–Being on my own: I remember Rue de Rivoli taking me home; I remember walking until I saw gold statues; I remember asking for things, waiters rolled eyes or patient smiles at my mumbling; I remember being ordinary, swept up in a rush of black and gray coats, elegant sweaters; I remember the young tan man in boat shoes, no socks, shorts, and a gutted fox around his neck; I remember buying decorative underwear, lace and little hooks, imagining your undoing them. I wore bangs and pet the dog and bought fresh, colorful fruit. I remember you weren’t there.