Pour ma bien-aimée Valentine,
Je vous prie de revenirsains et saufs.
From twelve blocks from Central Park and more,
Snow falls delicately, flaking as far as that store,
Where the plush, blossoming roses stay cosy indoors,
I may walk past the un-frosted window, browsing for
The perfect one.
Paid and collected, I smile – work done.
Guaranteed, this rose is the best seller,
For you, young lady, a decadent rose,
The finest like aged wine from an Italian cellar.
Your warm smile spreads from the gift – this voice
But you’re still unaware – I can tell.
Before you turn away, my hand brushes by yours,
Startled, you turn. Those eyes – bleu de France,
It takes me back to the Mediterranean shores,
Back to the golden summer, days where I was… me.
Yes? You look at me, confused – your friends glare,
Ah, pardon moi, je suis desolè, I didn’t mean to stare,
Excuse me? You tremble from winter’s grasp,
I know you – that’s right, this is where I’d meet you, at last.
I remember that moment when you jumped so high,
Catching you in my arms, it was more than relief – sigh,
You screamed – New York could hear you now!
Your friends, bewildered – the feeling felt so well – the wow.
I felt warm tears sail down my cheeks, imagining yours too,
Choked, I whispered; I love you.
I love you, too! You squeezed me so tight,
I didn’t want to let go