Lost in Translation

 

There is nothing sexier in this world, than a foreign girl leaning into your shoulder and willing broken language into your ear. It doesn’t even make it in, it crumbles on contact and falls down your neck like exotic dust.

I couldn’t help but notice you are the only other person in the bar drinking vino, and the only one that makes it look so good it should be painted as a mural and hung over the Venice canal. I manage to speak back in broken English despite it being my first language. I am fluent in nothing, we speak with our eyes, and I only understand how violently fucking beautiful you are.

I haven’t said anything meaningful in months, and it has reduced me to a tropical sweat in front of a blank typewriter for the first half of Summer. There isn’t a live vein under my sticky skin.

You peel the gold Yin & Yang medallion about an inch off my chest, and crack a bottle, and crack a smile that makes every Michelangelo classic look like shit. For the first time in my life, there is no seeking right words. There is no chasing explanation. There is just, this.

You came around the table in heels and a Brazil shirt before your flight and grabbed a hold of me like a dreamy novella fantasy. We kissed so deeply, I tasted the salty turquoise from the Caribbean, and you tasted smoggy pink cloud particles, and we both tasted each other’s greatest work. Small hot pieces of English came out of our mouths, and fell to the floor in their meaningless glory like embers from an erupting volcano.

And it has dawned on me, the taste of ocean water & average merlot in my mouth, is infinitely sweeter than any sort of profound metaphor.