literature

Mika

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autumn-spirit's avatar
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Literature Text

The city strip sparkles like
a diamond in the rough,
cursed by a gypsy
over in Brooklyn,
living above a tarot card shop.
I meet you under
a billboard of a lipstick model;
shimmering rose,
but she's not as pretty as you.
Girl, you're my fire.

Taxis whiz past,
energetically honking
as they crowd the tarred streets
and we zigzag in between.
My hair blows in the gasoline
and aster breeze like
pieces of caramel and ruby.

Our hands clasp as
we reach the harbor where
the burned-out boys
glance at us warily,
while stuffing dollar bills
in their denim pockets.
Still, we dash across
the lackluster bridge
like panthers; quick and ghostly.

Baby, there's a club for pixies
in Manhattan and that's where we're going,
where we can fade into a pretty crowd of
stylishly shredded tops
and skinny, glittery arms,
even though we're not usually good enough.
Tonight it doesn't matter
because we'll drink with
all the trashy heiresses and mini princes,
drowning our souls in cheap vodka
and Saturday's champagne;
immortal as it runs smoothly
down our clean virgin throats.

Restless music hums in the background
as creatures with fantasy eyes
make their way toward us,
asking to dance,
but you belong to me and vice versa.
They can't touch us and
we still take long sips
from their delicate universe.

I'm all yours; posing in the shadows,
smelling of
clover and wasted innocence, girl.
The atmosphere here
pulses with activity,
promising rebirth;
voices climbing up
and down the scale
of libertine fun.

Waves of Turkish silk tumble
down your velvet-clad spine
as your body moves
sinuously like a mermaid's
to the steady, gentle beat
of a pop/rock song.

And your rebellious smile is
like a dangerous flashback
of Francisco Lorca style poetry,
tempting me in the controversial
darkness of this urban mist
swirling around our heels.

I pull on your arm,
leading you off
the slippery dance floor
and we dash out
into the populated west end,
heading for home.

Stained mahogany and salmon pink,
your place is lit by incense and
decorated with Japanese history;
rice paper screens,
cherry blossom paintings hanging
daintily on the walls
like ladies' scarves.
And the scent of tea leaves
draws me further inside.
I press you gently against
the door of your bedroom
and capture your lips with mine,
tasting the East Coast
and this urban sunset
on your ripe tongue.

This is our favorite
part of the evening;
when we can strip off
our Manhattan long sleeves
and itchy stockings,
revealing real copper skin,
dropping the facade
of making people believe
we're victims of circumstance,
merely hiding in the shadows
of everyone else around here.

But we're not;
we're masters of destiny, as well.
And you don't
know how startling you look,
unlike those
cheap princesses who claim
to be damsels
but lack the self-respect
it takes to be truly fierce.

But you, girl,
you're my blackbird paramour;
the reason this night sinks
into my bones,
making me shiver as your
kimono falls,
revealing your small breasts;
pictures of innocence,
and the outline of
your ribs like train tracks,
making me want to
get lost in the smooth
color of it all;
race and gender be damned!

Time escapes but we don't mind.
The kettle whistles on the stove
hours later and we're still
lying in bed,
tracing words
and bird names on each others'
bare backs;
crazy riddles made by familiar
fingers with
laughter in
between each sentence.

It's difficult not to
give this city credit
for causing us to collide;
at a traffic stop,
in a pastry shop;
reeking of Paris
and artificial sugar.
But I'll never regret
taking the subway that
Friday in February and
saying hello to the girl
who is now my lovely
partner in crime.

Mika, you seep into
my NYC flesh like
a renegade perfume,
making it smell
forever of apple
blossoms and sea towns.
..
© 2013 - 2024 autumn-spirit
Comments2
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tucraz's avatar
Beautifully done. Passionate, playful, and tender all at once.