All of you tastes like freedom. Like codfish stew, bacalao. Genius, that’s what I call your temperament. That’s what I call your style. Harlem gal with Caribbean accent, with Gods in her hair. All of you sounds like rebellion. Like Celia Cruz, salsa. I call your voice thunder. I call your voice sweetness. Your lips mango nectarine, papaya shavings. Frio-frio on an August day. Family cook-outs, dominoes and cervezas, Coronas, Presidente, Modello. Yea, you taste like culture and heritage. Enriched with sophistication. My Harlem gal. I love you, loved you since I heard your real voice. That liberation. That revolution. You saved me. And I love you. I love you, ever more every night. I write this on siesta, in the lands of Macondo drinking with Marquez. I love you, Dios mio te amo. My Harlem girl.