Crumbling tower.

A dream of marble floors and men in bowler hats,
Perfect windows adorning French cafes,
A smoky hue in the streets filled with ginger cats,
Non-existent daydream made of greys.

Cut through to a man climbing a narrow ladder,
Panting he scurries the turns between flights,
Escaping a thought that only makes him madder,
His mind is slipping away with her damn plights.

He is not quite sure why this Julia wants him there,
But he is sure that it is not for love at all,
Paper butterflies descend and he too as if to dare,
Do not follow this fool or you will fall.

He explodes and begins to burn into a fine ash,
A tailored suit tears and hisses into steam,
His pockets, his watches, his glasses and cash,
Distantly a woman gazes upon this dream.

All that he ever wanted was for her to pain a little,
For her to pang when he looks at the others,
To believes that his loves for her might be brittle,
Painfully she speaks and his response smothers.

She cannot love this man in his perfect attire and perfectly rounded hat,
For she doesn’t want to be happy.
But he will never be strong enough to walk away,
Because neither does he.