An Ode To the Man With Vitiligo
He got on the train at
52nd street. I was already
sitting on the chilly blue seats
with my niece who pulled on
my curly black hair, trying to
get my attention when it was
stolen by him.
With the sun dirty dancing on
his face, I saw him, a man,
so striking, so beautiful he was
his disease, his strength
his strength, his confidence
his confidence, his beauty
his beauty intoxicating.
I wanted to kiss the
blotches of his skin-
the shapes of peninsulas
on his hands, Australia
around his nose, Africa
on his eyes, America
around his lips-
where melanin used to be.
Though I would have given
a little of my melanin to
cure his incurable disease,
he didn't need it. For so many,
outside appearance intertwines
with beauty. He had more depth,
his disease doesn't define him.
I wanted to kiss the
mahogany color of his skin,
smell the butterscotch on his
lips, delve into his mind probably
so rich of diamonds and gold,
he's a remedy for my shallowness,
the train comes to a stop. We smile
at each other as he gets off.
Copyright © Pippi B. | Year Posted 2015
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