Sabine of Montmartre

Sabine calls me,

tells me to come to Paris.

Charcoal drawings line her attic apartment.

The smell of turpentine and smoke

dance with us, barefoot,

over blank canvases.

Our painted bodies drip,

mixing with spilled absinthe.

We create a bohemian masterpiece.

I peel back my skin and offer it.

She dips her fingers in.

She paints.

Sabine lives with nothing but a suitcase,

some sketches,

and my name.

She fell in love with strangers every night.

Women who painted.

Men who played violin.

No belief in God.

She worshipped kissing with teeth.

My pain, proof of her presence.

I wrote poetry on cigarette paper.

Sabine of Montmartre rolled it,

set it ablaze.

Now I wear her red scarf,

and write poetry

in her three notebooks.