The allure rests somewhere beyond the unyielding sun or hourglass sand, the wafts of cleansing cilantro, smoky chorizo, or bliss resin peppering bareskin evening, the explosive aerosol flora turning edifice to canvas or the fevered industry of four million restless lovers blanketing the sky. Beyond such accumulated scurry and linger are hearts open, hands turned up in welcome, words that pass easily through smiles. All spin and dance, toil and grin, welcoming, wanting, wishing for this better or that improving, and their skin creases – olive, brown, peach – at pinched eye corners, umber when mixed by sunset, glorious and teaming shoulder to shoulder like the azure tide-swells at midday, cresting, pulling, withdrawing and delivering. Lovesongs float on the breath-warm air and arms extend, find that lover, hold on, fill, and then shed ugly beliefs, the no’s, the can’ts, the don’ts and instead feel, like sand welcoming the wave, hungry, feasting, absorbing melody as if each heart near joined in chorus and set the day’s end to adagio, the slow simmer of desire within the crowd; the lazy waltz that hangs stars in the night like earrings near a neck awaiting kisses.
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