to the boy i met at the metro station,

you were more of an oldschool trickster than a valiant knight, with glittery cons up your sleeve—conjuring mechanical rabbits from magic top hats just for the heck of it. you made all damsels swoon with just a devil's smile and a flask of whiskey for drowning your misery.

i was a mystic and i could predict your fortune with my eyes closed, but each tale was different. once, you were an outlaw, carrying scimitars made up of rosette prose and bone daggers from graveyard effigies. next, you were a crusader and fell in love with a bird-woman who collected teeth from corpses of animals. "it's for good luck", she says and hung a lace of wolf-incisors upon your neck to ward off death and keep him from shooting you in the head. then you were a bard and gypsies would dance while you play any instrument. but now, your verses are out of tune. you still play but only for funerals.

oh, othello— my prince of thieves! forget, desdemona. can i be your inamorata? can i be your bandit lover and together, we will make wishes on parchment clovers. we would dance on rooftops, getting drunk on the bourbon moon and vodka stars.

but you're just a boy i met at the metro station, playing a harmonica for a few coins. my heart died when you stopped to take a breath and managed to look me in the eye. then you smiled and for once, your trickster irises had that exact same glint inside my fantasies every time i dropped a couple of shiny quarters.

i could be the butterfly in your chaos theory and you could be the sonnet i will write when all the poets would let me borrow their words.

let's trade love for a little romance, darling.


where's my angel by metro station