Puppet-Blood-Lighter by Bader A. Shehab

When the sun sets upon the Obispo
orange hue reflecting from the saxo,
your arms falling on the playing piano
your jawlines cutting the tungsten dispersing the embers of your beauty 
it flames gently – the flares of film
it burns into the millimeter of my eyes,
in your flawless summer dress
while your curls flower the freckles
across your shoulder lines.
The golden blue lava in the skies
the vista of a Miami fever,
the salt in the air luring my nose
onto your tan lines
complimenting every curvature
of your body
dripping in Carribean salt waters –
itching the sand away
the crystalline fragments
on your ankle lace,
it refracts the golden blue lava
surrendering to the humid perspiring
intertwining with my pores
in the film of our touches
spraying upon the turquoise palettes
of tropical waters,
the sweat from your hairlines
tingle the senses in my nose
as I whisper lyrics from Cesária
into your ear…
The slight millimeters
of your cheek
occasionally touches mine
while I pull the strings
into the midnight hour –
the Obispo flower
the Crown Royal so sour
the puppeteer in my mind,
the humid surrendering
to surreal flows heated
and entangled in the smokes
of my Buena Vista cigarettes…
Wooden panels
worship the soles
of your feet,
light arcs
thick panes of glass
fermenting into your dress
life imitates your art.
Across the ballroom
I occasionally
inhale your breath
because I’m in the splendid
closure,
proximity alludes
our atoms in the dance
while our rushing blood
is basking in the warmed skins
as our minds get washed with the ’64
your elbows encompassing my arms
above the tango of your feet…
I envy the Buena Vista cigarettes
hugging the spaces between
your humid-soaked lips.

“Do you have a lighter?”

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