Burning Morning

your umbrella is here

you left your umbrella flying in my Parisian sky;
i stepped out on my balcony
with a cup of tea and my morning paper,

the boiled water was not hot enough to burn my mouth-
i wanted pain, pain like the pain
that keeps
little children from touching the flat iron.

instead, i saw your umbrella and a few more than just yours-
outside.
flying.
all those colors in my sky
burned my eyes
and that was- enough.

{picture: ffffound}