Bent-backed, except when you remember that you're not.
Musty like a neglected closet, just this side of
sour milk.  The tang of rusted wire
guitar strings.  A blank canvas.  Baby shampoo,
no tears.  But you smell like those too.

Ash and gray, hair the middle of light to dark, you
straddle the dusky twilight, a color meant for no one.
Open to the world, every emotion passing through your eyes,
golden clear, a citrus shock trespass into my head, until
your doors close, eyes like mud.
Lemon Meringue.