There isn’t really much to compare to being sick in paradise
The paradoxical nature of it emphasizing one’s loneliness
The perceived, forced through centuries magic-through-coziness
Replaced with – I would much rather be sick in my own bed.
The French are certainly masters at wearing ski gear
Prêt-à-porter and form-fitting for every graceful body
Every single family makes me feel as a pity-inducing nobody…
Moms with high ponytails and perfectly high-waisted ski pants.
In part, my current sickness at this francophone resort comes from the word Après
Après-Ski, par exemple, implying what one does ‘after’ they ‘hit the slopes’
But what if I never hit or touched them, only day-dreamt of the Alps snowy gropes
(In actuality, this entire time, I was living (coughing) it up in the Après-nothing really)
Why can I hear you think – Quit your whining!, for the duration of this excuse for a verse
This isn’t Jane Eyre, you aren’t Edward, in fact, you aren’t even Edgar! (and now I can see you smile)
Having established all this, we are not to communicate in thoughts; between us a thousand miles.
If you were burned by your crazy wife who escaped the attic, its unlikely that I even would notice.
My mood is nothing but an aftermath, an Après-DécisionsStupides. Asian family sits down speaking to one another with the pretentious melody of ‘je suis Parisien’ – well assimilated.
The Jew in me, can’t help but wonder which family member assimilated first. Then I facebook message you a joke that just seemed clever. And if ‘tu ignores’ I promise I won’t be humiliated.
Because such “les pensées, les émotions toutes nues’ are simply not about you or me
If not for sickness, I would ski, I say, and the inevitable avalanche that it would cause (stop to appreciate the joke, right here) would make me fall and under all this snow I stay beneath the whiteness and, this, much needed pause, would help me think whats next.
Somehow its out of the joke realm, but you ignore it, regardless.