Paris is far away this midnight and all of my friends are wasted, i'm 6 years behind them, they said you could be anything but i chose to be nothing.

I left the city. I got drunk. I danced with French guys. I wasted all my summer nights but nothing filled the emptiness you left in me.

What happened to the summer of daisies and old french songs? She sits in Café de Flore. There’s a Fitzgerald in her lap, yet she can't read 'cause her mind wanders; late nights, summer air, 50s, hazel eyes and the boy once she loved and still loves