I am the man behind the gate. And I hear the laughter of the late night drunken passerbyers. They do not know that I am here. They might never know.
I crack open another can. The cold suds fizz. The bitter taste reminds me of when I was a boy. Cheap nights. Bad decisions and laughs all our own.
My first kiss was shared with a young pretty black girl. I was standing with my bicycle between my legs, her bike between hers. It was late in the summer’s night. I don’t remember the name of the street we were standing in the middle of. And I don’t remember her name. But I will never forget the kiss. Probably the sweetest I’ll ever taste. Cool, wet and like sugar on my tongue. Never forget.
The nights’ skies are the same as they were then. It’s the days that have changed. Changed us. My shoes have worn thin. As have my socks, as has my soul.
It’s just past midnight here. In Paris they are drinking black coffee and smoking their morning cigarettes. And my heart is broken as Paris is calling me home like a ghost that thinks I am someone that it used to know.