Visitors

I sit here and I'm watching the sun set over Montmarte in the way that it does 

Shaking its head 

At the depicableness of those below 

The ones it has risen above again and again day after day and it continues this way 

Shaking its head as it slowly 

Bleeds into the buildings that are bonafide postcards ripped from the shaking hands 

Of beggars 

Postcards that coat the walls of us, 

The visitors

We are not permanent, none of as are, we are simply visitors 

And we pass through in and out in and out 

Through the doors to this place where dreams come to live and die with each 

Breath of the sunset 

We are beggars with postcards in our shaking hands pleading can someone show me where this place is because it sure isn't here. 

It is and it isn't because this is a funhouse mirror and what you see is never what you get 

I got lonely and I know that it's because there are lonely places deep inside of me 

And my mirror will always reflect lonely wherever I go 

And my lonely is framed by beauty but that doesn't decrease its gut wrenching singularity 

And none of this is permanent

We are scuffed 

Leather boots and cigarettes 

Burned down to fingertips and 

We are frozen hands and wine-stained lips and 

We are empty kisses and cold apartments. 

We are searching for that scene in that postcard that we will never find 

Because the directions they give us are all wrong 

Because they don't see it the way we do

The way you do, 

The way I do

We live in pockets, 

The hotels of the city nestled safely away 

In slate grey attics as the dusk descends upon us 

And we slip down creaking staircases 

We are buried

In the hidden parts and we pass through silently but you 

And your vastness and your leather and fur 

You and your champagne and 

Saint Laurent you are just as temporary as we are 

You just can't see it yet

And maybe 

When temporarity is staring you straight in the face, 

Maybe then you will see it but

I don't care because I see it now

I see the dying in us 

And I see the heartbreak and the lonely and 

I see joy in emptiness and peace in melancholy 

I see the way her eyes shine bright 

And youthful in an ancient way 

I see fire in the depleting tobacco 

Between your fingers

And maybe we're all just passing through

 But I would rather be a fleeting sunset 

Than an ever present winter moon