It’s Always Raining in Hollywood Boulevard

To Him,

Against the rough sketch of the Champs-Élysées

we fade into color.

Inside my little dorm, I show you the polaroid – a picture of Sam,

the brother who had dropped out of college and a three-story fire-escape –

And a note from the Admission’s Office – underperformance, poor GPA –

that has me spiraling after Samuel.

With rhythmic swoops, you pull me above the streets of Broadway,

The streets where I would say your name and people would dream.

I raise a glass and step off the edge, “Here’s looking at you.”

The fall’s beauty dwindles exponentially.

Haggard breath and the manic wail of the wind bleed into my ears

as the sidewalk looms ever closer.

The ground meets me with a lion’s beauty:

not quite human, not quite beautiful.

You wait on the pavement. A quick pitter-patter of your toes

and a tipped hat, peel open my crusted eyelids. Your body captures

the penniless artist’s palette, livid with the cadence of this old town.

You extend your hand like you expect me to join you,

like Hayworth did,

like Charisse would,

like Rogers, always and unashamedly so.

So I do.

Against the backdrop of the Champs-Élysées

we fade out.

- Cheryl