Bloom of the Ivre

Love is like a blooming rose.
That's supposedly true in Paris, the city of romance.
I once held that rose.
I promised to nurture it forever.

But then it was blown away, out onto the streets of Paris.
Now its petals are watered by another.
The the bar I go, in an attempt to drown my sorrows in liquor.
Shot after shot reality fades away.
A drunken fantasy takes its place.

I thought I'd found a rose like the one I once loved.
When I sobered I realized it was just the liquor.
Tis the bloom if the ivre.