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

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,
and 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

A forest filled with floating spirits,
spilling over with sparkling intentions.
Isolated and intelligent and irritated,
they curse a lot.

Yellow eyes yearn for

You and me, we're half-formed.
A caterpillar in a cocoon, stunted.
It tries for years to chew its way out,
only to find its wings misshappen.
Before it falls, too far.
A fatal flaw.

I can't see your hair and the television
at the same time.
One or the other is always
static.

Look closely as she cries
and spy a piece of a fly.
Within her pupil, its eye.

Brown and green and black
and, there, you see?
Reflected in it,
is me

I knew a young woman
who wallowed, will cry.
And I'm not sure why,
I am so high.
Perhaps I'll die.

On my way home, after a bad a time
and I'm caught in a thunderstorm
It takes a long time, to move my
feet through the mud
and self pity

I'm hungry
for white-blonde hair and green eyes
or steak and strawberries
but I go to bed with an empty stomach
and dream so vividly
that you lost your tongue
to a stray dog at the bar

Your legs are wrapped around my waist
I put my hand around your throat
and you press your hips into mine.
I'm hungry.
I move my lips to your throat and
you inhale sharply.
I'm so hungry.
I bite you, maybe too hard,
but you don't make
a sound

We were on my couch, tangled up in each other.
Until you fell off, into the red floral pattern carpet.
I offered a hand and you pulled me down,
into the flowers after you.
So we stayed there, marking each others skin
with our teeth and your nails.

The morning after I looked at the bruises
on my arms, chest, and neck.
It still hurts where the carpet rubbed against my elbow.

It'll hurt till tonight.
When you'll come over
and replace my bruises
with new bruises.