she has the visage of an angel;
her skin as white as a baby who's never seen light,
her eyes reflecting off a river mirroring evergreen trees,
her hair a sandy blonde, rough at touch, but beautiful and straight and such,
loosely tied in a pink elastic band that i hope she still had.
her arms are short, and they wrap around my waist,
i don't know whether they meet at the small of my back,
but she still locks me this way.
i caress her cheek tenderly, and a question trembles through my lips,
inquiring about herself,
as i am lost in her pleas that cut through my chest.
my friend urges me to move,
but i am in a daze, appalled at such a profound beauty existing in a such an unfortunate place—
i take hold of my consciousness with an unwilling mind;
the world shaking under my wobbly feet, and it is suddenly too bright for my eyes;
my grip is quite loose on the string that attaches rationality with reality,
my thoughts entangled in a mess that argues with humanity
at the tremendous massacre of civility
manifested by the angel's emerald eyes that redden when
i give her nothing compared with what the world has failed
to furnish her life with;
and by "the world" i refer to myself, and yourself, and the people who allow themselves
to exist in a world where other people perish
for not having what they carelessly discard—
my friend wants to leave, but i keep staring at the girl's thin physique
as she chases people down the road
for a pound or so-and-so,
and i notice the orange strip on her dark trousers,
and think, with tears i can't spill, that i should write poetry about today,
but i can't write, and i can't describe, and i fail to portray the shame
this girl has rendered me with
towards myself, and yourself, and the people
because we exist,
and fatuously rarely think of the other people
who beg for what we dislike,
and wish for what we demean,
and pray for what we thrive against (peace),
and cry for what we have,
and possess the purity for the empty facades we have pride in,
and think high of what we think belongs to the bin—
and my friend wants me to move.
it's a crowded place, and i'm starting to sink in a phase.
she looks at me with worry across her face,
and impatience because i may have scrutinised the angel
dressed in old clothes with the foreign dialect longer than i should have,
and she's running late, and i'm falling behind, again—
as we aimlessly stroll up and down,
through the streets of the silly town,
i strip myself from all the content that make me stick around,
and amble towards the murky ocean, that is my mind, in which i drown—
the girl's skin is smooth when i touch her face,
and i don't mind her unprompted embrace,
i ask her about herself, and her day, and her name,
she says she's fine, and, "call me by your name."
