Cue the music. Send in the woman wearing lips as though they were born out of a Kandinsky. Mouth painted in hue of red that makes blood blush. What’s my line? asks the moon. It exists wearing a sweater vest and sheath of wool but from down here all that can be seen is its blinding gaze.
In New York City, everything is romantic. Even the scent of urine. Because when a beautiful woman is against you, the nose smells only blues and jazz on her breath. The cement is covered in a carpet of crushed leaves. We make music with each step. And there is nothing wrong with this air no longer sweating against us. When the body shivers, it reminds us how moved we can get.
Doesn’t this feel like a Woody Allen film? I will stutter my tongue down my throat; you will write poems out of intimate disasters like finely tuned recipes. All of this can exist on a couch somewhere during overpriced analysis session with accented human reminding you that life is meant to feel dog-eared– battered but emphasized.
We will eat differently now because of allergies and dietary restrictions, but here in New York City, everything can be a substitute for the real thing. However. Beauty will always exist as its truest form when the moon stretches and the light is just right to notice. To notice. All the red in this world.
I set out to find you, I found a piece of you here. I grow ever more curious to know just what was in that letter. Red lipstick smudged on the mailbox from where I lay my frustrated head as it was empty, yet again. Though each time that I opened it I could have sworn, for a moment, I heard music.