Opus

Of loverboys and imaginary cities

The city to me is a lover boy with kohl lining
his eyes, needle-thin, but there, enough for me
to notice. I never tell him, but he looks so
beautiful. My hair is cropped short like a man but the
skirt I had worn on a morning whim surrounds
my ankles and I feel like I can own the world.
(my sister had bargained for it for a whole
half-hour in the flea market. The memory of the
afternoon and her voice still lingers in its folds)
He waves at me from the other side of
the street. I wave back and I am reminded that
we are both playing a role. We don't know
who we are but we come closer till we meet
in the middle and our breaths mingle.
That is my city, where we survive on the
kindness of passing strangers.