The skies outside are dark, too grey for you to walk home safely,
I think
The clouds rumble their agreement,
or indifference
It's hard to tell with clouds
My hands are at your waist and outside it starts to rain

Suddenly, I notice that things are heavier.
I blame it on the rain, wetting the trees, weighing them down
Blue cigarette smoke fills the room while I look through my window,
watching you leave
Weaving your way through century old trees

Long legs and a perfect ***, red and green and dark
I'm so hungry
And I really don't mind the rain

It's grey.
It's hard to see through the thick fog,
making even the colossal, ancient trees,
shadows of themselves.
The small dirt path I had been following
had disappeared from under my feet
shortly after the fog made everything...
so grey.

I walked, or wandered,
wishing I could will myself away from this place.
Why had I been here to begin with?
I couldn't remember.
Maybe something about a cat?
Or a rat...

Eventually, after some years,
I came acrosst an odd brick building,
covered in moss.
The ground surrounding it was blackened,
burnt by a fire that hadn't touched the brick building,
for the moss was green and old.
It was the first thing besides trees and fog that I had seen
for hundreds of years.
I considered walking past it, giving it a wide berth.
I went inside instead.

Inside was red and floral carpet and big comfortable furniture and,
under all that,
the smell of woman's hair, the feeling of hazel eyes watching.
Being in that brick house,
I realized for the first time in three centuries how tired I was.
I hadn't slept since the fog rolled in.

I lay down on a big comfy looking couch,
the kind thats good for sleeping on.
I think I fell asleep even before my eyes had shut.

I dreamt of a white haired girl,
making her back arch,
and feeling the peach fuzz in the small of it.
I woke up and, for the first time in a long time,
I felt lonely.

Wander acrosst the unfinished bridge, into the forest past.
The night air is cold, sharp, and blue.
Follow the ***** moon dust path, aglow in their strange torches' pale light.
Don't mind the yellow toothed frog.
Find them, the smallish dark-haired inhabitants, and ask for their advice.

They'll chirp enthusiastically and idulge you happily.
I now live by the words they told me,
"Sleep with red-headed women, mind your manners and never eat ill-mannered birds."

I'm drunk and I think you're stupid
and conceited,
egotistical and shallow
A frost colored ****,
slowly creeping around
whichever plant
is unlucky enough to be nearby

"How lucky I am!"
thinks the plant,
"That such a beautiful vine,
chose me to embrace!"
It dies slowly,
and dumb
Dumb, even for a plant

I saw you,
through rose colored lenses
But now they're just red
So, *******

I'll see you tomorrow

It's grey now
In the calm, after the storm
or perhaps in its center
So quiet that I can hear her breathing,
like the last note in a song,
and under it,
at the very edge of hearing:
the soft whispers
of small spirits
in an unfamiliar language
like old cedar woodchimes
on a windy day

Outside is dark,
and rain,
and trees
It's been raining all week
and I hope it won't stop
Maybe, if it doesn't
all the ground will wash away
and I'll finally know
what exactly is under
that odd moss statue,
half buried in sand,
always looking in my window
like I did something wrong

You feel so cold,
against my fever
You're hair,
like a fountain of blood,
flowing down from your face
making two seperate puddles
on the pillow beneath my head

Our home is blue smoke,
and cats crying on carpet
But mostly, it's her
Alone in the foreground,
without competition
So I look to the hazel,
****** glow of her eyes
Always so bright,
skeptical,
and laughing
But now they seem darker,
****** and less green

Her words were all curses,
violent and heavy,
pulled down to the floor
by their own weight,
to make quite the mess
Such lingering filth
is not easy to clean

But I'm ****** and she's pretty,
like a manchineel tree
exhausted of patience
She's looking at me
like I took away,
every good thing,
in all of the world

Blame me,
Or our town:
built on miles of buried *******,
rotting in the dirt
We pretend to be offended, but don't really care
Why should we?
I imagine it's much the same in other places,
with other people
I think that all towns are grey,
just different shades

But her,
she'll stay red forever
in varying shades