And I heard you say the words. I heard them from the neck of me. I heard them in the manner of a warm hand placed gently on the lower back, an intimate gesture. And the smoke wafted back from her, the silver dangling from earlobes kept pace with her step. It wasn’t an easy gait, one built of confidence and poise, but one rapt in the benediction of grace. She was speaking to me, but what she said I am unsure. I made it out though. It will come to me in time. Something about the way her long, dark hair rested on the collar and whispered around the shoulders of the black leather. She wore death, but not in the way of the dead or dying. She wore it with the dignity of seasons changing. Her own trans-”something”. Transcendence, I think. She was building her own way with each cheap boot, each time they hit the pavement, with one hand curled at her side, the other with cigarette to mouth. She was speaking to me, but I’m not sure we caught eyes. The smoke pulled behind her. It was an exhalation of something more than toxins. It made shifting clouds that I think will carry on through time and space for more than a world of lifetimes. I heard her, yes. What she said, I am still unsure, but she shone like something captured in the silver hanging from her lobes. Her heartbeat, a steady drumbeat that made my own. I don’t know her, but I do…
(November 30, 2007)
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