Two Artists communed on a subway platform.
We broke bread, drank wine.
Sent praises to the almighty Gods for off schedule train times.
I shared Hip Hop. He gave contemporary in return. We lived Poetry.
Two Artists made Love on a subway platform.
Art was the bed. I laid words down as if it were my first rhyme.
I was shy, apprehensive, fear filled due to the consequences of seeing a Artist with a salt and pepper umbrella living Free Will forever.
He respectfully called me Beautiful.
I told him he wasn’t too bad himself.
We laughed. We broke barriers. Color lines were not erased; they were never noticed.
Still unaware of the tone in his complexion, but his hair…
was superbly untamed.
We shared ourselves on a subway platform.
I was a blushing purple pen with black ink.
He was a guitar pick. He made the sound. I created the letter.
They call us starving Artists and yet there is nothing more than what I have that I am in need of. May I share even?
– Hrsh Reyalitee