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