First night in Paris,

Cigarette grows cold in the gutter.

Is this my life?

This lonely Cigarette?

It’s not burnt yet, to the filter at least…

It has the power to smoulder for a time

As it nears its death…

I shift my bags and keep walking.

The street is warm in summer.

The Hill looms like a horizontal

Mound of feminine beauty…

Welcoming me.

Up the stairs a hostel is waiting.

Sweat from my face falls into lace caressing my skin.

The night is hot… the steamy Parisian air…

Is laced with smoke.

A girl is crouched in the gutter,

The half-spent cigarette in her long fingers.

“J'ai su que vous étiez tombé…” she inhales.

Such a simple gesture…

It gives me hope that someday

Someone will pluck me from the gutter, too.

“Aimeriez-vous dormir à mon endroit?”

“Je no pas parler Francais.”

“You need place to sleep?”

“Yes! Um… merci…?”

“Oui. Avec moi…”