we be sleepers

fresco à morte

story of my fuckin life
My name is stanley and I like to read write and draw. Above all, I love meeting new people and trying new things.
S trawberry Shortcake; a second avenue sunday morning walker. Pit pat-pattering tears streaming down your beat-beated eyes, running along your sweet cheeks. We make eye contact from opposite corners of the crossway on 11th. I know what happens when you get home late.
“Where were you?” “What were you doing?”
You stand frozen in the vestibule of his studio apartment. An open palm grazes the hollow of your cheeks. He demands an answer. Two hands push you toward the rusted steel door and I imagine you do not scream, nor do you cry. Your slender figure shutters above those long olive legs in that short silver skirt you wore to the club. You are scared, but I imagine you know the right words.
“Baby, baby no”, “…with the girls”, and “It’s all my fault.”
Crouching legs pulled in, ass on your ankles; resting restlessly atop those pink pumps, and you’re posing like you mean what you say and you're sorry, but I imagine you are not. I see it now as your lips curl into a smile and even in those pit pat-pattering tears, which are streaming down your face, from the in’s of your bright green eyes to the tip of your whiskey lips, mudding your caked makeup. Your brow (red from where hair has been plucked) is calm and shows no emotion. Your Easter yellow sundress is askew and wrinkled. As we approach each other in the middle of the crosswalk I notice that your skin is oily, and I smell men’s deodorant as you pass, perhaps you haven’t been home yet. You speak inaudibly, but I make out the words “hello stranger” and I notice that your tears have dried and you are grinning, widely.
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