NOIR

“Sometimes I feel,” he whispered, his muscular baritone vibrating somewhere near my heart,

     “like we're living in a film noir from the Thirties.”

I looked into his blue eyes, noting nothing black or gray lived there.

He was cranky tonight, some project gone wrong,

But I had to admit, he had a point.

Coltrane, Mingus, Chet Baker on the stereo every night,

     scratching vinyl because we're both such music snobs.

Bottles of Macallan scotch because we drink only the best.

     And we drink it on ice made from water procured in the Alps.

We were both in black cashmere, smoking home-rolled clove cigarettes

     And my nails and my lips were both painted deep red.

A few friends had called us hipsters, but we weren't;

We were tragically cool, so tragic, because we meant it from the heart.

Our life was all about emotion through cynicism, 

     Erotica through narcissism, sexual satisfaction through selfishness.

Something had to change; I knew I was annoying him

And he knew he was boring me to tears.

Other than the orange spark when we lit cigarettes and candles

     even our apartment was noir now.

I was worried the food would soon follow …

     White sugar, black beans, white rice, black raspberries,

     Milk and black coffee and never the two would meet.

I walked to the window, black stained oak covered in heavy white velvet

     With black lace floating beneath,

And stared at the magic moon hanging in the sky tonight.

She was so clear and so large, she nearly looked as if she was made of crystal

Just another image to add to our noir, more atmosphere for the next scene.

I turned realizing how much light the moon lent to our darkened apartment

     and how the shadows seemed to play off every wall.

Suddenly there was a flash of silver from the moonlight

     and I remember wondering briefly if it was lightning

     but when I saw it again on the wall, and his reflection in the mirror

I knew Mother Nature had nothing to do with this particular film of my life.

To die in the big city, in a black and white apartment,

wearing all black, my blood as red as my nails and my lips,

that crystal moon watching it all ...

was such a cliché, I don't think I'll ever get over it.