As I sit in a corner of my room
smoking the final joint of the day,
through my half closed eyes, I see
a shining light from outside the window.
As I move closer, I can see a hand
the most welcoming one, calling me over.
The moment I touch her cold, soft
hands, she pulls me towards her.
At first I’m blinded by the light but
soon things start becoming more clear.
My lips are just inches away from her,
the woman of my dreams, the Helen to my Paris,
My sweet and lovely Sylvia. With a sweet
smile, she gives me a peck on my lips
and then takes me by the hand as
we start walking. We were in an alleyway
in the middle of nowhere and soon
I start seeing those faces that I can recognise.
Uncle Coleridge and Shelley are at the bar
fighting over some supernatural elements.
Poe is at the corner sitting by himself,
contemplating and jotting down notes.
The life of the party is none but
my dear Uncle Marlowe fascinating
people with his stories and characters.
As we enter the bar, Sylvia and I
take a seat at the counter and order
“Two Martinis, shaken, not stirred.”
Soon like two lovers in heat, we are
transported into a world of our own,
a world were our insecurities matter
no more. As we finish our drinks,
I notice the middle Bronte sister, looking
at us with such care and affection.
We exchange smiles as Emily comes over
to take us back in time with her
stories of Heathcliff and Catherine,
and that we reminded her of the duo.
I thought I could never be happier
and I had seen it all, but when
Sylvia led me by the hand to the
centre of the dancefloor to waltz
around and around cheered on by
the happy faces of my godfathers—
Camus and Kafka—could I be happier?
Suddenly, the joint burns my fingers
as I am startled from my reverie.
This work has been published in Beetle Magazine's August 2020 Issue.