I saw her in a taco joint on 5th Ave.
She was gorgeous. She was the Mexican Blessed Virgin of my dreams. Hair darker than midnight, set up into two small buns on left and right side of her head. Skin. Softest caramel. Cream coffee brown. I wanted to press my lips onto that skin so brown and luscious. To feel every contour. To taste the salty sweet sweat. I took her hand. Softest hand I ever held. Oh, if only I had the balls to have kissed it. To know her taste and scent. To show her my suffering desire.
Oh native of ancient land from before the beginning of the world. Your body a shrine to Aztec religion. They used to sacrifice women like you on alters for the perversion of priests. Now I lay my soul on your alter. To desecrate. To penetrate.
I wanted to undue the buns and see that hair fall in cascades over shoulders. To see hair graze your chest. Breasts that looked so firm, so voluptuous, the white tank top could barely contain the beauty. The curves. Oh, to have seen you topless.
Legs. Brown and shapely as the land. I invoke your name. Marcella. Like alchemists of antiquity. I conjure you. Marcella.
Sadly I know now you will only appear in my dreams. In visions on afternoons and in lost nights. When I close my eyes and imagine the hot Mexico heat and the salty sea air. I will see you, beckoning me with eyes a glow and incense burning from clay pots on dirt floors in that town by the sea. The smell of tortillas and poverty and cheap tequila. And you, your soft brown body. Your smell of earth and vanilla and agave. Holding me, comforting my heated brain. Running delicate fingers through my hair.