Il est comme un chat,
mais he feels like fog,
like the mist hanging in the air
wrapping around streetlamps.
He feels both dangerous
and calming,
shadowy but also
romantic like Paris in the rain,
where maybe it's not romance made for you
but it still soothes and eases the rough edges of your soul
to know someone somewhere is in love.
He feels like fog settled down around the cracks of you,
not a weight to bear
but a gentle pressure grounding your feet.
He feels like the smoke curling up from his cigarettes,
potentially deadly
but honestly,
who's got the time?
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