COLD SKIN IN PARIS
The top-floor room’s only window was open to the winter
January slashed my bare skin
I rolled closer to Mirabelle
The blonde mannequin had stolen all the duvet.
My hand reached over the mattress
I pulled the cover over us
Her skin was cold as the gray dawn of Paris
Below freezing and I imagined her dead
My penis hardened to steel on her frozen flesh
The aristocratic junkie drew a shallow breath
I parted her legs.
She liked it this way
“It is like I crawl from the grave.”
We fucked
She gasped at the end
Like a beautiful corpse
Coming back to life
“You think I look like Nico?”
“Different.”
Every schoolboy in the 60s had fallen in love with the Velvet Underground’s ice queen
“Show me.”
I shut my eyes and Nico sang I’LL BE YOUR MIRROR
I didn’t need a mirror with my eyes shut
Mirabelle was Nico was
Mirablle was Nico
And winter was warm under the sheets with Mirabelle.
Especially since she looked nothing like Nico.