Finger Paintings

I

My body, a canvas.

Each crevice of skin,

painted by memories

neither obscured by time nor distance.

Each feeling,

each moment,

danced upon the tips of my fingers,

the nape of my neck,

the crease in my eyes.

Each image,

each memory

found life on my figure.

I am enveloped in the memories of
The places I have been,

The people I have known,

They touch,

they color me

in different lights,

Shaping and creating me as I am.

II

He stood on the corner of the bridge that loomed over the Chicago River.

A river that obscured the faces of onlookers

and the glowing buildings that lit the night

in such a way

that the stars ceased to exist.

His dark skin shined against the cool glow of cars

that eternally passed him.

His large fingers

calloused, and hardened by the bitter air

danced upon the dials of his brass instrument with

Elegance. Sophistication.

His music.

It belonged to no time period,

To no person.

To no specific thought

Or feeling.

It was entirely and completely his own.

His music.

It became the beating heart of the city.

Seeping through unsealed window panes,

Traveling down dimly lit alleyways,

Clinging onto the coats of passersby.

Each melody, each mode, each moving note,

Improvised.

Each movement carried into the frigid air

That would turn his breath to powder.

His music,

It folded over like sheets of royal blue velvet.

It tasted like the sweetest honey on the tip of my tongue.

This man whose name is unknown to me

This man who I will never see again

Left his image in honey gold on my wrist.