#poetrry

The last remnants of spring were being washed away with the droplets that cascaded from the heavens that night. He'd thought he'd been lucky enough to leave the rain behind when he moved to New York, but like his writer's block, it seems the heavy clouds followed him across the pond as well. He was in search of inspiration and his small English county could no longer provide that for him. He'd only been in the city for a week but had still yet to find his footing, his place. It was the very words of Ginsberg that brought him to the seedy, down-at-the-heels boroughs of New York City, that propelled him to get on that plane, that brought him to her. Whatever the poets of Gotham were smoking, he wanted in.

He'd been walking down Canal Street that night, the rain lightly kissing the tops of his cheeks, puddles flooding around the soles of his loafers. Why he'd decided to wear the dark leather footwear on a night like that night was beyond him. It was his first official night out in the city, so it could be said that he subconsciously wanted to look his best. He'd spent his first week in the city holed up in his apartment. A corner walk up in an old hotel that rented rooms by the month.

The Hotel Chelsea.

The heartbeat of the city located in its underbelly.

He knew it from literature, from music, from art. He was told it was where artists are conceived, born, and died in a never ending forest fire of pathos, ethos, and on very rare occasions, logos. Swimming in a pool of their own shit and only their own shit, and then somehow making it glitter like gold. He was told it was where the muses lived. Every single one, from every myth and every legend. He was just waiting to meet his own.

He ducks into a dimly lit concrete stairwell when the rain begins to pick up. Soaking through the unbuttoned-at-the-top shirt he'd been gifted by a friend before leaving home. He stands under the small coverage provided by the building above him. Watching as bright yellow taxi cabs wiz by, distorting the already distorted refraction of soft warm light that spilled from the street lamps above. He watches a couple kiss in the rain before departing and going their separate ways and yet, although he was in the presence of such a magnificent amount of pulchritude, Harry was still unable to string words together into a verse that would do it justice.

A muffled cheer sounds from behind a door he hadn't realized led to anything, catching his attention. He turns, peaking into the frosted glass window located in the center of the old wooden door, leaning so close his nose flattens against it and his breath fogs the glass beyond its frost. He squints, trying to get a peek inside when the door swings open. He steps back swiftly, heart pounding, lungs heaving for air, hand pressed to his chest. The culprit, standing in the doorway eyeing him. Platinum blonde hair is the first thing he sees, then a sharply arched eyebrow over icy blue irises, and a cigarette, pressed between two lips painted in a maraschino cherry hue.

Harry struggles to collects himself when she side steps and gestures for him to enter or leave, either way, the purpose was to get him out of her way. His eyes are still locked on hers, swimming the in whirlpool of her energy, feet about to touch the sandy bottom of the frozen ocean within her eyes.

A snap of her fingers in the space between them pulls him out of his liquid dream like a buoy pulling a drowning boy to safety.

"Move it or lose it, I haven't got all day."

Her voice is unlike anything Harry had ever heard before. Although she looked lithe and delicate, her voice held grit and power. With an edge Harry could only imagine the sharpness of.

He squeezes past her through the door, their chest brushing as he scuttles. He dwindles when he catches a whiff of her. Whiskey and cigarettes and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on. Vanilla? Sandalwood? Whatever it was, he wanted more of it.

She scoffs as she pushes past him into the evening downpour, forcing him further than he'd planned on going. He turns quickly and watches her ascend the drenched concrete steps as the door closes, her tall, chunky heeled boots slapping against them like duck wings on water.

He stands there, staring through the small rectangular window at her blurred silhouette. It isn't until he's shoved lightly to the side, and then back, further into the bar by people trying to exit, that he realizes just how long he'd been standing there. In the process he loses sight of her.

The door opens again and Harry is pulled further into the small bar by a wayward group of people. He concedes in that moment, walking through the dive on at his own accord. His mind still spinning with a looped triptych of the encounter.

This was a new experience for Harry, the momentary loss of self in a stranger, specifically supernal, a particularly peculiar case of sonder. He'd had the luxury of knowing everyone in his small town and therefore had not been afforded the company of fresh faces and anomalous auras for the majority of his adult years of life. This was a feeling Harry wanted to relish in, to drink and be drunk on and its catalyst had just walked out the door to indulge in her nicotine laced vice, and in all probability, to not to be seen by him again. New York is a big city. All big, blinding lights and an even bigger populace.

That, however, didn't stop him from nursing an inaudible prayer on his lips as he ambles carefully through the bar, hoping, while trying to keep hold of realistic expectations, to catch a glimpse of the fair-haired sparkler one more time before he, himself, burned out.

The room, puzzlingly humid, dimly lit, and thick with people, carried the stench of old beer and rotting wood. A heavy cloud of cigarette smoke floats up from the crowd and threads through the dank wooden beams of the ceiling. The walls, covered in a deep red, are peeling and fading into a grimy brown, reminding Harry of the rust that sat on his neighbour's old chevy back in Cheshire. The floor, beer soaked wood that Harry was sure could give out at any moment if they weren't below street level.

Everyone in the room was gathered around a small stage made of old skids in the middle of the small space. A woman, small in stature with tousled brown hair tucked under a dark gray pageboy cap and black, thick rimmed glasses, stands on the stage in front of a microphone.

Harry heads to what he assumes could only be the bar. As if the rows of liquor bottles located behind a very well groomed young man hadn't been a clear enough indicator. His look, a stark contrast to the dwellers in the bar. A crisp white short sleeve button up, tucked into a pair of sharp black trousers, held in place with a black belt, silver buckle.

"What can I get you?"

Harry looks up at the bartender, then over to the bottles of liquor on the wall. A decent sized plank of driftwood sits snug in the center of the middle row of bottles. 'The Sick Rose' it read in a delicate, hand-painted cursive, the same red that dressed the walls.

He looks back over at the bartender who is watching him, waiting patiently for his answer.

"Whiskey, neat."

The bartender smiles before turning to grab the bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind him. He grabs a glass from under the bar top and place it in front of Harry before pouring.

Harry watches him intently, taking in every detail. From the way his brows furrow when the liquor splashes up against the side of the cup and onto the bar to the 'nectar of the gods' glisten of the liquid in the glass.

With a tight but genuine smile, the bartender pushes the glass towards him. Harry reaches into his pants and takes out a balled up fiver. He flattens it out on the bar top, a light, embarrassed chuckle leaves his lips before he hands it over, returning the smile with a curt nod.

Feedback bleeds momentarily over the sound of soft conversation drawing Harry's attention. He picks up his drink and turns his attention to the stage.

She's seated on a high stool, the woman on stage, and has a cigarette pressed between her middle and index fingers, the smoke cascading up to join the rest of the crowd's. In her other hand, an old, black and white school jotter with several coloured post-it notes sticking out of every side.

She gets off the stool and steps towards the mic, poised with her book open and resting on her forearm, against her chest. She speaks with candor. Her tone rhythmic, almost musical.

She pauses and the verse rings in Harry's ears. A dull ache pulses through his chest. The tips of his fingers tingle. There's an itch trickling up from under his skin that grows with every word, every pause, every breath.

This is what he'd been looking for. What he had come to New York for. To live and exist as the wordsmiths before him. In a dark dingy basement bar, last legs, glass of whiskey in hand, cigarette smoke clinging to every space. No more thicker than the voltaic energy that has the hair on his arms standing at attention. The baring of souls in stanza, in verse, in caesura, in rhyme. A chorus of pain and lust and life, oh to live a life like this. And now it was his.

He rubs his arm but knows that that isn't what will satiate his craving.

That the only cure lies within the keys of his typewriter and alabaster sheet of 8 ½ by 11.

Harry takes another generous sip of his drink with peeled ears and attentive heart. Hoping that the ability to write something, anything, would strike him like the lightning that had been streaking the sky that night.

He'd almost forgotten about her in the hurricane of poems and poets that swept on and off stage throughout the night. But when he sees her again, hours later, the initial rush of titillation he had felt returns like an unexpected punch to the gut.

He's three glasses of cheap whiskey deep, leaning against the small bar top. The crowd in the bar had gotten boisterous, rowdier, and now instead of poets baring their souls to the patrons, there's a louder than hell band on stage. He's sure they have no idea how to play their instruments but the magnanimity of their outrageous on stage antics made them entertaining enough to watch. The lead singer had broken a bottle over his head and made out with three different women on stage within the span of ten minutes and yet, once Harry had caught sight of the platinum stick of dynamite, he couldn't take his eyes off her.

She's seated in a worn leather booth at the far end of the room. And although there were copious amounts of intoxicated people standing between them, Harry had managed to maintain a clear and direct line of view.

The first thing he noticed was the smug smirk that never seemed to leave her lips. It was as if she was holding onto a secret that no one, not even herself, knew. The second was that she wasn't alone.

Next to her in the booth sat two people, a man, neck full of tattoos and decked out in leather. His dark, shoulder length hair looked as if it hadn't seen a wash in weeks but Harry could admit that the man was quite handsome, in a dangerous, "I'd steal your car" kind of way. The other, a woman, wild curly hair, tucked under a black beret. Her dark skin shown against the dim lighting in the bar and was a stark contrast to the bright red, latex dress she had on. The outfit was soaked in intimidation but the smile she had affixed on her face as she whispered to the object of Harry's full attention, was soft and genuine.

The blonde head of hair whipped around in Harry's direction and their eyes catch each other's.

In a movement too swift for him to register himself, he turns to face the bar, an embarrassing warmth making its way up his neck. He orders another drink even though he already has a full one in his hand. He throws it back, finishing it before the bartender could put the new one in front of him. Harry takes in a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves before turning back to catch one more glimpse of the blonde matchstick before calling it a night, but just like before she'd disappeared. In fact, the only person sitting there was her female friend, the male compatriot had disappeared as well.

Harry can't help but wonder. Had she gone out for a cigarette, or had she decided to take the brooding tattooed man back to hers. Maybe she'll be back. Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she was still here.

He scans the room before his body propels him forward, a heart over head start of an active search, removing him from the bar and into the crowd on people. Popping up every now and then to see over the sea of heads.

When he finally does spot her again, she and neck tattoos are wedged in the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms. Their chests pressed together as they speak in hushed, harsh voices.

"Neck Tattoos" holds a small plastic bag above her head, a frown etched deeply in the curve of his brow and the edges of his lips. Harry watches as she attempts to grab the bag back from the man but fails, falling into him, her head turning and immediate locking eyes with Harry's curiously impeding stare. Her eyebrows furrow and her lips pucker. Her gaze is intense, hard but it sends a neon jolt of electricity through Harry's body.

She looks away, pushing herself away from "Neck Tattoos'" chest, as she makes another attempt to grab the baggy from him by propping herself up onto her toes. His large tattooed hand wraps itself around her wrist tightly and her eyebrows furrow in pain as he leans closer to her. Harry's body jerks forward as her eyes drift back over to his. His legs move to carry him closer but halts momentarily to size up the situation.

He'd always been someone who thought about actions and their consequences before making rash decisions. Logical and reliable were words that could be said to be synonymous with Harry Styles.

Heck! The most impulsive thing he'd ever done was what had brought him into this very situation. He didn't think a bar fight would be in the cards for him, ever. But he figures there's a first time for everything.

Harry makes his way over to them as quickly as he can, bobbing and weaving through the crowd, trying to keep an eye on the situation all the while trying to figure out how he was going to incapacitate "Neck Tattoos", who looked to be about a whole head taller than him.

The crowd seems to be fighting against him, trying to keep him away but he fights against it anyway. In that moment, Harry likens himself to salmon swimming upstream in the frigid autumn waters. A dangerous journey but to give up would go against their nature. Fight, however, was not in his nature but he thought himself fiercely passionate and empathetic which could be the same, he thinks. Harry finally breaks through the crowd and is within spitting distance of the two just as the snowy haired firecracker winds up and socks "Neck Tattoos" square in the nose.

Harry's eyes widen as "Neck Tattoos" falls, landing at his feet. He stares at the man on the floor before trailing his sights up to the woman who'd mystified him the short time they had been aware of the other's existence.

Her hand whips up and down as if shaking it will rid it of the throbbing that had begun to consume the limb. She bends down over "Neck Tattoos", retrieving the reason for the abruptly violent situation that oddly enough, no one else in the small bar acknowledged. She pats him on the shoulder comfortingly, her smirk returning to its place between her lips.

"Probably should get that checked out John. Broken nose wouldn't do that pretty face any favours."

Her words are firm but underneath it, there was a hint of something that told Harry that she actually was friends with "Neck Tattoos". That she cared about him, although her actions seemed to say otherwise.

She stands, and in the process notices one of her bruised knuckles bleeding. She brings it to her mouth, and it's all Harry can stare at, eyes still as wide as a deer in headlights.

Her icy blue orbs move up from the floor to Harry's face and he melts.

"Thanks for all the help man."

Her blood stained lips spit the sarcastic benediction with the prick of a sharp dagger.

Harry blinks. He opens his mouth and finds it hard to form words with the amount of indescribable feelings rushing through his blood stream, or maybe it was just the alcohol.

She sighs, rolling her eyes, and pushes past him, stepping over "Neck Tattoos", to a door adjacent to them. Harry twists his head to follow her, in a daze. It isn't until a loud clang sounds, the door closing, that he snaps out of it.

The spinning in his head comes to a standstill but the bubbling in his veins is far from subsiding.

His body is moving towards the door before his head can even fathom it. The pull is so magnetic. It's as if his soul had left his body and is pulling him along by hand, it's celestial.

He moves quickly, almost a blur, as he jogs out of the bar and into a dark lit alley. The rain had stopped and had left behind tiny reflective orbs of liquid on every surface that sparkled even in the darkness. He spins to his left, then his right in search of a halo of bleached tresses but comes up short.

A weight lands on his chest and trickles down to the pit of his stomach.

Regret, maybe. Nausea, definitely.

Should've said something.

He spins on the heels of his now drenched loafers with the intention of heading back inside to grab one more drink and quell his overstimulated mind and heart. He reaches for the large metal handle, when something catches his eye. A spark, several. Flickering and flashing to an off kilter beat. Small but bright in the darkness of the alley.

He closes his eyes and takes in a breath before letting go of the door handle. He takes a step away from the door, relieving his filled lungs with an aggressive puff. He's already been reckless thus far tonight, what's one more ill informed decision.

He opens his eyes and takes a few cautious steps towards the continuous tiny combustion. Slowly, hands curled in tight fists in case something or someone jumped out at him. In case he met one of those colossal rodents that New York was so famous for.

When he gets closer and his eyes adjust to the low light, he sees her. Leaning up against the grimy, graffiti filled, brick wall of the bar, cigarette between her lips, lighter in her bruised hand, pint glass filled with beer in the other. A brisk breeze flows through the wind tunnel alley way as she struggles with the lighter. A slick curse passes her lips every time the lighter goes out without lighting the cigarette.

Harry walks up to her, still cautious but fists unclenched.

"Need help?"

Harry chokes out the words but it's enough to cause her eyes to flick up, landing on the smile he struggles to keep soft. He doesn't wait for an answer, instead he steps forwards, cupping his hands around the lighter when she tries to flick it again. This time, the cigarette lights and she breathes out an audible sigh that dances around the smoke as it leaves her lips and Harry finally finds his voice.

"Y'alright?"

His eyes trace the lines of her face that are faintly illuminated by the end of her cigarette. Her soft lines a stark contrast to her hard glare. The corner of her lips fixed in a subtle scowl.

"Could be better."

Harry nods. He racks his brain for something to say. Anything to hold her attention for just a little while. Anything to keep this energy, au courant, from fizzling out.

If words came easier to him he wouldn't be in this alley. He'd be back in Holmes Chapel, in his makeshift cave of books and trinkets and old wood. With candles that smelt of Christmas and full body warmth, and his family would be just a quick jaunt away.

"You like poetry?"

Idiot.

He mentally curses his inability to come up with something less benign but stops when she lets out a loud, choking laugh. Her head tossed back in sweet amusement.

"Do I like poetry?"

She forces out through her chuckles.

"Is that a line?"

Her eyebrow peaks as she takes another drag of her cigarette then blows the smoke in Harry's direction. He blinks rapidly, the smoke causing his eyes to gloss over.

"You don't have to try so hard. If you wanted to take me home then all you had to do is ask. You're pretty and honestly I'm not picky."

Harry's eyes widen as he shakes his head, his eyes darting to a piece of soaked garbage on the cement, a candy wrapper.

Never had he met a woman so forward, so unapologetically crass and yet, still so enthralling.

"S'not what I want," he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. His front teeth press down so heavily he thinks he might've drawn blood.

"Really?"

She flicks the ash of her cigarette and brings it back up to her lips. A crooked smile cause the smoke to exit her mouth from the side rather than in Harry's face. He nods, it's subtle, but she acknowledges his answer.

"Doesn't seem like it. You've been watching me all night and when people do that it usually means one of two things. One, you want to fuck them or two," she take another drag, "you're a perverted stalker."

Harry's attention snaps back at her.

"M'not a stalker."

She steps closer to him, her body flush with his.

"I believe you," her voice is soft as her hand runs down Harry's shirt collar, fingers hovering just above where his exposed skin starts and not stopping its descent, "and that's sad because I'm sure we would've had a good time. Never done it with one of the Queen's sons before. Guess I won't be crossing that off my bucket list tonight."

She steps away from him and flicks her cigarette. It hits the wall causing the cherry to burst and glowing ash to trickle down like fireworks on the fourth of July. She walks past him towards the door but pauses before opening it. Looking over her shoulder at him, she shakes her head and laughs before disappearing into the building.

Harry stands alone in the alley. His body quivers with shock, with fear, with sheer excitement.

His heart was beating in his ears. His head, a spinny, dizzying top, unrelenting in its momentum.

He attempts to steady his breathing as he leaves the alley, stepping onto the sidewalk. The streets no longer bare as the patrons of bars and clubs alike pour out, where they'd follow the call of the rest of their night. An after party here, a quick, regrettable in the morning fuck there.

Harry bobs and weaves through people, still high off of the sheer aura of the woman. Missing a step and nearly eating shit as he descends down the stairs into Canal Street station.

He dawdles through the station, stopping to take a look at some of the musings of urban philosophers in permanent marker on the walls. Declarations of love and lust, names of places and people, numbers if you're in need of a good time.

"I'm sure we would've had a good time."

He checks his pockets for his wallet or some change when he gets to the pay toll but comes up short. He throws his head back and sends a curse out to the universe.

A chime sounds and Harry double times his pace, looking left and right before hopping over the turnstile. All but flying down the steps, he glides into the train just as the doors begin to close, narrowly missing his torso.

He catches his breath as he looks around the near empty train car for a seat. An elderly woman with a small buggy filled to the brim with groceries offers him a soft smile to which he returns as her makes his way to the far end of the car.

He takes a seat, his back to the window. He clasps his hands together as the train enters the tunnel. His body shakes and rumbles with the movements of the vehicle as a loud, low whistle fills the space around him.

He leans back, resting his head against the glass with eyes closed. Words bloom behind his eyelids like spring flowers but refusing to link together like a daisy chain to create anything worth writing down. His lips part as a heavy sigh floats past them. The train comes to a halt as his eyes open with the door.

His eyes shift to the doors as the elderly woman makes her way slowly off the train.

She passes and when she's clear of his line of view, a glimmer of pale blonde catches his eye.

A few blinks and a double take help clear his vision.

There she is. Sitting at the other end of the train, head bobbing back and forth to the tempo of whatever tune is floating through the headphones that are snug around her ears. A bright red portable cassette player rests on her lap, legs clad in houndstooth.

Although she was quite a distance away from him, he could see her now. Really see her. Her hair glows in the fluorescent subway lights and Harry is like a moth to a flame.

When she stands to get off the train, he does as well. Stepping out of the train a few doors down from her. On the wall, in mosaic tile is the name of the station, his stop. He heads towards the stairs, staggering his pace to stay a few feet behind her.

She walks with purpose, with power. A strut that says stay the fuck out of my way.

When they make all the same turns Harry chalks it up to more than coincidence.

Divine intervention maybe? Not likely.

As they both close in on the hotel, Harry decides that he's going to say something. But when she stops abruptly in her tracks, it throws him for a loop. His legs, not quite registering what was happening, continue to bring him forward and closer to her than he'd planned. She spins around quickly, her eyes landing directly on his as he stops a few steps away from her.

"Are you following me?"

She points a sharply manicured finger at him. Harry steps back, shaking his head. He holds up his hands in surrender.

"M'not. I swear, it's just a-"

"Pervy stalker," a sing-song lilt carries the accusation from her mouth to Harry's ears.

Harry's eyebrows furrow.

"I live here?" It's a question more than a statement. He points to the building.

"You sure? You don't seem so sure."

Harry clears his throat as his hands fall to his sides.

"I do, I live here."

She raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Where's your key?"

Harry sighs, defeated.

"Was in my wallet, but I lost it."

"Your key?"

"My wallet."

She hums, nodding slowly. Her eyes narrow as she leans forward. She steps back and turns on her heel.

"Sucks."

She approaches the front door of the hotel, putting her key in the lock. She pulls it open with brute force before looking over at Harry, who's standing in the middle of the sidewalk, alone.

"Well are you coming or what?"

He nods quickly as he breaks into a light jog. Slipping past her through the door she'd holding open with her back.

As they begin their ascent up the main square spiral staircase Harry can't help but let his mind wander. Questions bounce around his mind and on to his tongue like a diving board. A deep dive, cannonball wave pool displaces his quietness.

"What's your name?"

It's soft but she hears him.

"Noise."

Her voice echoes off the walls, stinging like a sour note.

"Noise? Your parents couldn't have possibly-"

"They didn't," she cuts him off with an over shoulder smirk so devious Harry could swear for a split second he'd seen the devil himself. Afraid to ask anymore questions he stays quiet.

They reach the 4th floor and she stops, turning around the face him.

"This is me," she points to a bright teal door, the number 412 affixed to the center in bold brass.

Harry nods.

"Where're you headed?" She asks.

"512," his answer is curt as he keeps his eyes on the ground.

"Not sure how you're gonna get in without a key. You might just have to sleep in the hallway until maintenance comes in the next few hours."

Harry groans but nods, wishing her a goodnight, frustrated that he wouldn't he able to sleep in his own bed tonight.

He turns and begins to continue up the stairs.

"Hey 512," Noise calls out. Harry stops mid step and turns around to a mound of black leather being tossed in his direction. He fumbles when it hits his chest but catches it, his wallet.

"Welcome to New York."