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.