forget paris

I get a post card

from paris saying on the back
in her
own hand

wish you were here.
and then something in French

which I have no clue
of.

she's pressed her lips
to the paper

the red smudge of lipstick
remains.

I don't take it seriously
though.
she was always

insincere,

rolling her loaded dice,
playing with
marked cards,

making life her own game.
but I pack

my bags anyway
and flag down a cab,

forget paris, I say, perhaps
somewhere warmer,

where I know the language,
where the women
are languid and cat like,

forget paris,
maybe spain.