Harlequin-Elle

“You look lonely.” It was a wonder Topaz heard it at all, under the growl of the traffic and the nearby hissing of the trains. His head jerked, eyes narrowed against the whirling dust. “I’m talking to you, mister.” He turned around to see a very young girl, her hands on her hips and her eyes masked by a battered pair of heart-shaped sunglasses. The tails of her grimy shirt whipped around her skinny body and her greasy dark hair swept over her face, strands sticking to her smudged lipstick. She smiled at him, but her shoulders were stiff and her knees pressed tightly together. “What do you want?” h

I could wax lyrical about Diasporas and your cool Hard beauty, while trying To incorporate themes of Oppression and morgues and Orchids in an attempt to sigh Remorseless over your paper corpse, And detach the distilled mist that Rises from the scent of desire In harsh new lights of hard Subterranean climes, against The tough white of your face and Every fluent trap of your fingers; Prolonging the inevitable halt until Desolation becomes too great For even militias and your lanced Desecration to bear: defiant as you, The tattoo of your boots is an echo Through the bloodstream where an Eternal you dances and eclipses The s