The streets smell of orange. Of juice collected in crevices, sweet and thick on the pavement.
The fruits hang from their posts like golden doubloons. Thick gold coins, planted in lines and colonial squares by the hand of Cortes himself.
Neon crucifixes hover on the skyline, impossible blues and reds seared into midnight’s skin, washing old grey stone with their light.
From the roof I watch the old people dance in the plaza, less flashy than their youthful counterparts, but with a dignified sensuality that sits lightly on the salsa tempo.
The tepid smell of tongue meat slowly licks the air.