The Historic Mayfair (poem)

the fog has overtaken the city and
from this windowsill 
images of passerby and cars and buses
overtake the cityscape- 

I puff slowly, inhale, and
turn to my lover

he is sound asleep,
laying amongst the ruins of last night:
empty beer bottles, used condoms,
left-over take-out, and the clothing 
we nearly tear off from each other every time we 
spend times like these.  

this old, brick building, experiencing the
constant changes of the city
has also been home to people coming and going,
relationships shifting, smells of sex and cheap cigarettes-
it has been witness to my sins,
My after-hours guilty pleasures,
it has seen us lust after each other 
and then talks of what might be or
what could be,
confused and mumbled and sometimes
loud and screaming. 

I hold this place close to me because
it promises to hold my secrets,
and lets me know that 
I’m not the only one.

I finish the last of my smoke and
crawl back next to him, 
his nakedness warming my body,
and despite that creeping sadness at the thought of
him and her or 
my own unwillingness to commit
I would not have it any other way.

we eat each other alive,
each with another lover waiting peacefully at home,
unaware of the love-lust we’ve created between us,
but there is no guilt found between these sheets.
a passion burning like love,
although we do not speak of that.

we use words like “adore” and
"admire" and "appreciate" and call each other
"love" and "lover"-
but never those three words we both think about
but dare not speak.

we hold each other, tenderly,
and look at each other’s pieces,
we examine the treacherous landscapes and
the peaceful ones,
finding the good and the bad,
our hopes and fears too big for
either to understand.

it will be weeks before we see each other again,
before we make sure to swallow each other and
savor the moment before his train departs. 

and the cycle continues,
every few weeks,
we grow accustomed to the distance but
it takes days to get there before
seeing each other again and
doing it all over.

I get nervous, we kiss, embrace, and can’t help but think
of the lonely weeks that lay ahead. 

It takes a long time for women to feel it’s alright to be chingona. To aspire to be a chingona!…You are saying, ‘This is my camino, this is my path and I’m gonna follow it, regardless of what culture says.’ I don’t think the church likes chingonas. I don’t think the state likes chingonas.! And fathers definitely do not like chingonas. And boyfriends don’t like chingonas. But, you know, I remain optimistic. I will meet a man who likes a chingona, one day. One day, my chingon will come.
Sandra Cisneros (from HBO’s “The Latino List”)

Fuck I think I’ve found him. ..