In my mind, my red dress bleeds tightly against my body,
the flame between my fingers is blue at the root and orange where it meets the end of your cigarette.
The night is old and grey.
The ocean so close by is black.
Their faces flicker in green and purple.
A disco ball is sharpened silver, rounded, hypnotizing.
We laugh for no reason and call it retro because we think we're cool.
And maybe we are.
My drink is clear, and yours is dark.
I see your eyes, I remember their color. I will always remember their color.
Will you remember mine if you can read everything they want to say?
The morning comes,
I pull another book from a shelf,
like all the stories I read in bits.
I'd turn the page to another chapter,
but knowing people in this city requires setting a flame to all the pages I will never know.
You tell me about chapter twenty three,
because it's the one you want us all to know,
but I will hand you the whole damn book.
A library within a hand.
Is what I am.
And this city --
with all of its overdue fines;
the torn up pages stuffed into crevices of apartments, stars and streets;
autobiographical tales of dreams and heartache;
scripts in drawers,
songs in ears,
your name in my mouth, like pen to paper.
Another story for the books.