I was told…

I was told…

The prettiest and most dangerous lady, I was told she was,

always writing down her words and

she was waiting for me,

her strong coffee sweet and creamy,

I saw her,

her eyes on the New York city streets,

pondering her words, her thoughts.

I pray I was wandering in her mind, 

I pray I was her night time wish, her devilish dream.

She was artist and a wordsmith,

her dangerous mind always twisting tales of laughter,

tales of midnight night dances and the sweetest red wine kisses.

She loved to make empty canvas alive and vibrant.

I went to her and she embraced me and she whispered.

“You Northern poets like the rainy days and making a lady wait.

Patience woman I am not, the coffee got cold and my restless spirit,

need a long walk into the Central park and you to make me feel,

I am the only one in your mind.

Make be believe,

I am your first thought in the morning and 

the last thoughts in the midnight hours.

You promise me adventure,

you promise me dance and strong drink.

We have been talking for three months,

interlacing feet and hands like old lovers at coffee shops and

you stealing kisses.

I know you believe I am a bad, bad woman.

Are you afraid of me?”

I held her hands and I whispered.

I am not afraid of you.

I adore those dark eyes,

I love your face and 

I love when you read your sweet words to me.

I dream of our midnight talks and our bodies becoming one in the 

New York city Winter nights.

You ain’t a bad, bad lady.

I am just a man who want to taste the salt on your skin,

I want to see your evening face, I want to see your morning face.

But I know,

woman control all things.

If you didn’t want me.

My last wish would be broken and some wishes we do need.

She smiled and she brought my hands to her mouth,

she kissed each one slowly and sweetly. And she looked up, 

and she told me.

“You do make wonderful promises and maybe my love, my darling.

We have intertwining dreams and the sun is falling,

maybe a whiskey night, maybe some jazzy songs and some alone time.

Maybe the artist want some black velvet whiskey and the poet’s voice to

whisper some sweet words. Make her believe.

The illusion of love, can be true.”

Two people left the coffee shop,

the sun was falling, the moon was arising and

the golden dust blessed them.

                Dancing Coyote