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Hurricane Eclipse


New Orleans seems to have lived forever.

Purple beads, green liquor, and yellow stardust, I swore it’s ancient magic filled me until I was unstoppable.

A point blank saxophone told my feet where to go, and we followed it’s sugar coated whisper.

A red cocktail rouged my face, offered me a grin, and threw me into the parade.

Two hours on Bourbon Street, and I learned what they meant by hurricane.

You strolled into the French Quarter with a misplaced hysteria that became my burden. Another item of baggage to add to my already filled carriage.

You picked up the sun and moon pendant that hung it’s weight around my neck, held it in between your fingers, and mused.

You told me that I was not the sun, but the moon, giving light on my own schedule.

A turning figure constantly partnering with darkness when she chooses.

You, with your constant eclipsing words, were the first person who hadn’t called me sunshine.

To this day, I can’t tell if you were being sadistic, or seeing me clearly for the first time.

I wonder if our conversation still rests in the air of smooth sorcery. I wonder how many people have stumbled upon it, and marveled at the idea of if I still loved you as much as I swore I didn’t.

I wonder if someone else found your wreckage, and called it a sanctuary.

© 2020 Xandra Lang

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