Polished metal and planes of glittering glass,
twenty stories up,
the loft is a sequin in the sky.
Dewey-skinned girls with short hair
—their long, bare legs in high heels as tall as the view—
are translucent in the dying light of day.
They wrap their pastel-painted fingernails around colorful
cocktails,
purse their pink lips into kissy faces,
and drink until they soften and shine.
Watching them press their skin against the windows,
a radiant vision crystalizes before me—
their sparkling mouths on not the glasses’ lips but on mine,
their lustrous hair tucked not behind their ears but between
my fingers,
their long, long legs and bejeweled shoes not on the
concrete floor but in the air,
and me, seeing through their starry eyes
to a blindingly bright glimpse of heaven.
