He listened to her speak…words comin’ from her mouth…some kind of foriegn language…he couldn’t make it out…maybe it was Spanish…some sort of form of Spanish like Catalan…or Castilian…maybe it was the old language of the Basque…he wasn’t sure…words just kept comin’ from her mouth as gentle winds blew upon the beach in the moonlight makin’ the sand swirl and the tide high…

She wasn’t lookin’ at him when she spoke…she was starin’ out at the stars…connectin’ the little dipper and the big dipper…outlinin’ ’em with her thumb…paintin’ pictures in mid-air…all while she was talkin’ this foriegn language…he wished he could understand her…the words were so beautiful…rollin’ right off her tongue…as waves danced ’round their feet…

He kept lookin’ at her…reminded him of a woman he knew in Paris some years ago…back ‘fore there was fighting in the streets…acts of terror…back ‘fore the cops sprayed protesters with pepper spray…back when you could speak your mind…

This woman he knew in Paris…she was a ghost…some beautiful poet who walked the streets of Montmartre at midnight speaking words as well…carryin’ a book by Rimbaud…movin’ her mouth but no-one could hear her speak but him…just him…speakin’ in French…language bouncin’ off old walls…a hollow sound…like an instrument…her voice was an instrument…and when she spoke it was like she was singin’…singin’ out for soldiers who’d lost their souls in wars past…nothin’s free…

So…he watched her sing to the stars…and thought of his Parisian ghost…he thought of her…stood there and thought of her…

Love does funny things to ya…