The Betrayal of Black Roses

I promised a life in the city on the lake, near the French alpine villages, views of the mountains while we stepped out to the café by the alleyway apartment I could have purchased for us even then. I loved her like the greatest height I would be too scared of on my own, but together it was like heaven for a moment, with all the little market stores and the travelers flowing. I told her there we would no longer be prisoners of time. Instead time could be a companion for us like market streetlamps or the children littering the park or the museum on moving water. Where our real lives began after work and I would be willing to drink wine for the first time. It is not forbidden from the hand of your beloved. That’s scripture. She laughed and said you don’t even know French. But I have family I said. She laughed again. Your problem is you’re too American and you’ll never let go of your toxic ambition. My problem is I don’t believe in heaven. And I’ve never been a prisoner. I live all the time while you dream and dream. Your faith is like a fairytale, your love is like black roses. I think I can only ever love you as a friend.