Paris has a version of itself that only opens after dark. You arrive with your shirt half-buttoned and no plan except to get lost in it.In Unbuttoned in Paris, Lucy Sabine writes in the space between a poem and a confession: letters she never sent, lovers she remembers by their scent, obsessions that stay on the pillow long after someone has gone.These are poems for anyone who has haunted a hotel room, who knows love can feel like a crime and lust makes a very good alibi. Best read late, with the lights low.
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