The traveler’s kilometers are piling up higher than my bills in the vain attempt to subsidize and sanitize the cauterized spot burned into the trunk. The humors turned very strange, and there is a distinct pain in my throat that beer seems to make grow worse.
Despite that, Paris is a beautiful city in the winter. It’s a place where families from warmer places sit in the cold on old mattresses covered by blankets outside the metro. A place where street merchants from North Africa repeat “hakuna matata” and sell with desperate aggression, and where men pedal warm Heineken outside of the Sacré-Cœur.
I walk like a Parisian burn mark. But I’m not of this accent marked place. I’m a morally bankrupt man burned into a morally bankrupt society. I’ve run out of money. That is objective. But have I run out of time with her? That’s more difficult to discern. It’s borrowed now; like the funds I live on; like the metro tunnels that are rotting from the ceiling, where water washes in when it rains and collects in pools at the base of stairwells. There strange musicians play broken hearted guitars and beggars speak in rhyme.
The echoed calls remind me of verses I plan to say to you when I get back home, and they twist among verses I scribbled on postcards.To send them I wandered Paris past landmarks and lunchtimes looking for that elusive sign reading “la poste”.
Each piece of paper with a dime a dozen photograph of the place.
But scribbled again and again.
Take me back. Take me back- strange valley of the Hudson, sprinkled with snow in January, where somewhere south you are in all your brilliance. Where in my crooked sleep it is always summer. You and the simple high waisted love we shared. God take me back.