another run-on because i'm in the mood

A “Francophile”. That’s what she tells everyone she is, but the truth is that even after looking up the word, she can’t be completely certain that “a person who admires France, its people, or its culture” describes the braid of craving in her stomach, the way she hugs herself, digging the tip of her nails into the soft side of her arms, when on her way out the door each day, her gaze lands on the photograph–the one taken on the Rue de Rivoli where daddy’s eyes are two dark horizons, bent at the ends in their joy, and his smile is so open that his pink gums make a second set of lips–the one that makes her hope, dream, long for a moment like that–lover to lover–and that makes her wonder if it’ll ever be possible with Luke, or if like Daddy, she’ll have to wait until her spouse dies to walk with that strange sort of self-assurance, to pout and to laugh and to curse out loud, to drink wine every night until her lips are stained dark and to roam free–really free–with an adolescent lover, which of course makes her think, oh no (oh yes) how very French.