Warmth by Bader Shehab

The way your mascara tears ran down your breasts, the line it left behind of charcoal and coffee-black, dried in every pore and curve of your skin. The scent of your perfume mixed with the humid sweat, authenticated by the golden shadow of the sunset hitting the smog-filled window panes. Your Lady Marisol-like demeanor and aristocratic elegance in the ruin of a few rails. Colombia’s finest and bloodiest at the tips of your fingernailsThe 2004 Yamazaki shot glass with your fingerprints still on it, it sits camouflaged with the sun’s dying light fighting what’s to come of the devil’s hours.  Continue reading