Matt Niemi CC
A Poem to, How Soon Is Now, by The Smiths
I wanted it to be Fairy Dust, but it was just plain glitter. I wanted it to be magical.
I wanted to kiss a wizard or a princess, but everything was dark.
I was on the edge of being alone, so I kissed what I didn’t see in front of me:
above I heard a familiar voice, I am human, at the same time, lips and sweaty glitter met.
The taste wasn’t magical, but, tired.
He pulled away because in his eyes I could see he tasted my tiredness too.
“I wanted it to be gingerbread.”
“I wanted it to be black licorice.”
what’s gonna happen now.
Steven!...sorry, Morrissey, don’t rush us, please, we are still deciding on flavors.
“I will go for black licorice.”
“I would like that,” and we kissed again.
The tiredness was gone so going home alone wasn’t going to be tonight.
“ But, what about the glitter.”
“Isn’t it magical.”
No, it’s on the tip of your nose, in your eyelashes, and even...I kissed glitter-lips, yuck.”
“It was your glitter to start with!”
“I don’t wear glitter, not in a place like this.”
“But, it was your black licorice, right.”
She opened a music box in the middle of the dance floor:
the ballerina was gone, but there was a mermaid twirling,
“This was me in a past life.”
“I wanted a wizard or princess, not a mermaid.”
So shut your mouth.
“Damn it, Steven, stop with the synchronizing lyrics I am trying to decide if
I want to cry and then want to die.
She looked at me. “What you just said...you..”
“Yeah, I know, Steven puppetted me.”
“The beauty?” Did she hear what I said about Steven?
“Really, you thought it was beautiful.”
I would plagiarize, just once, to taste something new.
“Do you want to kiss again,” I asked.
“Did we kiss once.”
“Wasn’t that you.”
“I’m not sure, let’s try again.”
We kissed and kissed once more.
We twirled. She was humming. I knew the tune:
“Lips like sugar, sugar kisses,”
Steven tapped me on the shoulder, “Sorry, my dear, wrong song wrong band.”
“Whatever, leave us be.”
We twirled the night away. Then we went up to the roof, laid on my Bijar Persian, and waited to watch the sunrise. She leaned over and said to me,
“I love it when life becomes so cliche.”
But, Steven replied, “It’s the son and the heir, not sun and air, remember that,
and remember me when I’m gone.”
We turned to each other and frowned and both thought:
not black licorice or gingerbread,
certainly not glitter, princess, wizard, or mermaid,
“So, please, Steven, you are a handsome man,
but this sunrise was made for two.”
David Calogero Centorbi is a writer living in Detroit, MI. Recently published work in The Daily Drunk, Dreams Walking, Versification, Brown Bag Online, and Crepe & Pen. He can be found here on Twitter: @DavidCaCentorbi.
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