French Blonde

Like we were in Paris, oh
Like we were somewhere else
-Taylor Swift, “Paris”

You imagine the streets
are different, old cobblestone

and not this endless asphalt
and Midwest flatland,

and that you could even
be different too.

You take a sip of the drink
and vow to be more honest

with desire, to want openly
for once. There’s nothing

stopping us from being
extravagant, hearts

on sleeves and strings
made visible between them.

You can taste it, some nights:
what purpose feels like,

what it would have been
to see her in the dim light

of the oven lamp you forgot
to turn off again.

It’s possible to ask for more,
you tell yourself. It’s possible,

even for you, to seek out
something abundant.