Dark stockings and white Mary Janes.
Golden hair against the crimson sunset.
White fashions, New York Style, winter.
A long French cigarette, her name; Yvette.
II
Snow starts to fall, small and dry flakes.
They melt in her hair, before the dance.
Smoke and fashion are loathsome glamour.
But for a kiss, a touch, I will be enchanted.
III
Empty dance floor, just us, reverb heavy ballad,
Beautiful woman's voice, like an ancient siren,
Her voice reaches us over waves of enveloping sound.
We kiss, and we cease to exist.
IV
The snow falls outside the giant skyscraper window.
Every dirty city is beautiful in a fresh, late night snow.
We hold hands, not needing words anymore in heaven.
Heaven, here before we knew it, we still choose each other.
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