Narcisse

I have often stared at her as she strolls past the corridor, chuckling, giggling and I know she is a few heartbreaks young.She escapes to her corners and melts into poetry. She gets drunk on rum, art and anonymous solitude, puking nostalgia and undigested pasta.

I ask her, "Why are you so cold?"
She answers, "December kisses me just fine."

She too stares at me as I stroll past the corridor. I, however, do not retire to the corner. I perch myself in the heart of the room, talking, sipping caffeine by a fireplace and an untimely summer sins on my skin making me a speck of yellow against a conscience of black.

She asks, "Why are you so vibrant?"

I say, "Rainbows grave on skin."

A moon creeps into our room, our souls and together we watch the sky's children snoring, fading and aging. Our secrets vacate our bodies, merging, mingling and emerging as one.

She whispers, "I want to touch you."

She reaches out for my hand and I hesitate.

The morning comes folded in a newspaper. She learns about the world and to learn about herself, she looks into a regular mirror. 

She sees me. I see her.

I know she is a few heartbreaks young.

She knows I am a few heartbreaks old.