Neon Lights

Neon Lights of the City

The suite was small
(vastly so)
to which you had yourself invited,
mine,
a studio, furnished
(for I was far too young to know better),
a kitchenette and Castro-type convertible
along the inner wall of the larger room --
that was my universe --
a stereo beneath a dirty window sill
two simple stories up from
Brooklyn pavement, neon lights flickering,
fluorescents screaming signals
not to sleep (nor would I want that
with you, my new-found friend,
sleepless by my side.)
Rebellion cast me not too far from home,
and you solicited me
because you wanted something
I thought I couldn't give -- but did.
I remember lying in the darkness on the floor,
a pillow from the couch too near the door,
and blanket creating just a gentle slope,
supinely staring at the reds and greens
while Verdi strains screeched flowing arias to you
but sang to me (you were no Classics buff,
though you pretended well),
my arms straight by my side
undulating with emotions' tide
with senseless syllables uttered, secretly,
to let you know I was still there;
I looked at you, your bronze skin shining
just a silhouette of sensuous shape
waiting for the silence to subside.
Your fingers moved towards mine
and touched the tips
(I tingled just a bit) and countered
with a firmer grip that connected us inseparably.
Disrobed, you deftly slid too close
and took my innocence with responsive lips,
ectomorphic, muscular hips,
an Adonis thrust upon my unsuspecting self that night
as if a dream personified with mystic might
became reality and made the darkness light.
Your final sad farewells are all that still remain
remembered that one neon night you came:

"Our love for all but us would be insane
because we are too much unlike, and yet, the same."
I fondly still remember you though I never knew your name.