The air is thick.
It travels north and so do you.
The sun in the distance, you in the distance
As I feel the place on my hand where your lips once lay
My ribcage flooded with chardonnay
And my lips leave a mark on the glass
Just like your lips left a mark on me.
The air travels north, and so do you.
Into the ever-wilting dusk of Bucharest
Where the hotel rooms and the dark night musings live
And we become a blur.
I am your crusader.
The crusader of the pink and yellow
Confined within your ethereal cheeks
As star light surfaces
I am blanketed with the scent of you
The smell of buildings being built
Children being loved
Wars being won.
Your fragrance lives within a thick layer of cigarette smoke
It glides its way through galaxies, universes
Where it hugs the planets and it kisses your mother
Who you never really thought you loved until the day she died.
Dusk in Bucharest moves me
Just as the moon moves the sea
With a lonesome disposition.
A sweet disposition.
Priya Gandhi is a sixteen-year-old living in Scarsdale, New York. She attends Edgemont High School. She has been published in the Columbia High School Literary Journal, Session One. She loves Kurt Vonnegut deeply.