I can almost recall a time when I didn’t care… there was so much life laid up in store

frivolous days tossed aside:

grisly hangovers of endless nights,

I used to observe the characters of Paris from a window in Chez Camille… sun light flashing through the green of horse chestnut trees lining wide Montmartre streets-

well heeled parents guiding their chattering children past a

staggering drunk, piss marks up his trouser leg, greasy hair clinging to his beard

he’s avoided too by those girls in summer dresses, all legs and laughter and dreams…

they are ogled by the old men drinking coffee outside cafes, complaining  about their busy wives…

back in that time when our choices could send us anywhere-

careering into old cinemas watching movies with wide eyes,

building driftwood fires on deserted beaches

or writhing with nameless shapes in little rooms

washed in strawberry vodka

back before our choices defined us and hardened into everything we are.

back when right and wrong were only whispering

and the streets of Paris called my name