His 28th birthday in Paris – by Kayleigh Campbell

 

Flowing like blood through a vein,
we follow the Seine round bends, over bridges; padlocks glisten, boasting whose owners love the most. Holding hands loosely, we wander back
through cobbled, Instagram-worthy streets.
Later that night, we lie at the hotel honesty bar; swear we only had one Irish Cream,
when we actually had three.
In the attic room, oriental wallpaper,
our bodies intertwine on the chair,
up, down, round.
We’d like to think this was conception moment. Intoxicated, carefree night on his birthday, after getting lost in rows of bones
under the streets,
ambling through Père Lachaise.
Unknowingly growing underneath – a piece of me and a piece of him.
From a time in that cold flat above the bus station, some weeks before.

 

 

 

Kayleigh Campbell has just completed her MA in Creative Writing at The University of Huddersfield. She has written poems published in Independent Leeds, Ghost City Press, Former Cactus and Now Then Magazine, and is an editorial assistant at Stand Magazine, which she loves. 

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