The Girl under the Paris Bridge



She could only be found by the pure-hearted
the ones who believed in magic
and possibilities
the ones in dire need
the scarred, damaged

she gave them sweet caresses
or tender words
gently, she stroked
body or soul
sometimes both
whatever they needed

within her embrace
they found themselves
broken apart,

her voice, rising and falling
echoing under the bridge
musical notes cascading down
an unusual sonata composed
of nothing but arpeggios

whirling, shimmering in the air
getting caught in her wild mane of dark hair
reflected in the deep green pool of her eyes
the musical notes held them
told them
that anything could be fixed

before they left, she would
place her hand palm down
over their heart
and whisper
tu n’oublieras jamais

And they never did forget

they took the moment,
softly laid it in a piece of Chantilly lace,
folding it carefully

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