torn off the ornate brocade fabric of the palace walls she is draped with my rich, dense texture on her delicate frame. Under the dim metropolitan street lights lining the Met, I saw my reflection in the passing cars as I fled the the elaborate paintings of Italian Dignitaries and their dignified wives. I didn't like their stares, their condescending elitist glares at her disheveled tresses and urban interpretation of their opulent dresses. we stop momentarily to adjust her black suede stiletto ankle boots to regain composure.
This is my rebirth, I
assert looking over my shoulder, my modern rendering of your classical
c/o mee, dress by balmain.