Little Cathedrals

Gare de Lyon, that big bastard of a station, spits you out into Le Train Bleu, all that gold-plated bullshit from the old days hanging there like a drunk’s memories. Chandeliers dripping light on the suckers below, paintings of green fields nobody ever worked because they were too busy screwing the maid.

Tonight, the place is packed but quiet, just the dull clink of silverware on plates, like some tired whore tapping her nails waiting for the next john. Napkins folded like little white surrenders.

She sits there with pearls tight around her throat, small and hard, the way some women wear their regrets. Rain outside smacking the cobblestones, pooling in the cracks where the city’s piss collects. My shoes are wet, hers too, some fancy leather and those cheap sneakers the kids wear now.

She smiles at him, touches the stubble on his face like she’s checking if he’s real or just another ghost in a long black coat from Saint James, the kind of coat that costs more than my month’s rent and still can’t keep the cold out of a man’s heart.

They lean in close, laughing low, two strangers who decided tonight the world ain’t so goddamn empty after all. They talk about cathedrals, little ones, Chartres, Reims, Rouen, places built by men who thought stone could save their souls. He says, real quiet, almost shy, “Come with me tomorrow. I’ll show you.”

And something in her chest cracks open, warm, stupid, alive,
the way a cheap bottle of red hits you when you’re down to your last cigarette
and the night still has a few hours left to kick you around.

Neon rain drips down
your ghost in an empty booth—
whiskey burns alone