santiago, santiago —

and her eyes, all covered in glass.

she was like poetry in slow motion,

dancing wine-drunk in the rain,

and when she touched me,

i felt like someone else. not myself —

not city-boy, not nineteen.

we walked through a crowd

of strangers, crying

santiago, santiago —

her voice on my skin,

her hands turning my soul

like an hourglass. i cannot describe

how she unhinged my mouth,

how she strained my heart

through my teeth.

wild-eyed and half-asleep already,

still running through the streets;

driftwood fires on

blue-sand beaches, singing

santiago, santiago —

this romance a music box.

she was sun-soft, she had so much

heaviness in her smile;

and she kissed my past out

through my palms, whispering

santiago, santiago —

and these photo-frames,

these rose-petals.