There’s a man
Across the parking lot from me.
I just stopped staring,
And now he’s gone.

I don’t know why I
Scribbled him,
I just did.

I guess,
It was the way he swayed
With the trees above him
Like no one else really does.

My thoughts are only being written
And I’m not sure that’s entirely poetic.

And people watching is creepy,
Yet, I still do it.

Then when you look
At the outlines in a butterfly’s wing,
There are veins of light.

But clocks still tick,
Keys still lock.
And France isn’t as magnificent
As we wished it’d be.

So,
I don’t know why
Love is so painful
When it leaves.
But it is.

Just like France isn’t as  cracked up
As It’s meant to be.