Wayne, Wayne, Wayne.
My dear solitary Wayne.
I want to write about Wayne again tonight;
with his head in my lap and a candle
by my side.
With a torn heart that has healed,
A sordid love that has recovered.
Wayne, in tonight's candlelight looking damp
and fragile,
Like the cheap autumnal winds
He has struggled to step out from.
Wayne, I can see winds in his hair;
The sea in his eyes;
Which are too thick and oceanic blue.
Wayne, with his breath in front of me,
Like a pure puff of wintry smoke,
He chants loving spells again and again.

Wayne, Wayne, Wayne,
And guess how this heart could meet with thine;
And think how my poetry should be written--
if only there was not a sign of thee here.
Thou art the very thread that I write,
A breath that inspires,
A heart that is ne'er too tired to smile.
A dream I had carried all along--before that one
sunny day.
A dream I had troubled myself to think about.
Ah, Wayne.
If only I could heal that sadness in thy eyes;
Although with a tongue of satires and lies;
Then I would do so now, with thee here,
Ah, but at a night too loud and surly,
I can but barely see thee here.
I feel thy golden hair, smooth like silk in my hand,
And thy curved cheeks which oft' smile like
a little boy.
Ah, Wayne, but why art thou with me here;
I, who is neither popular nor unpopular,
I, who is neither famous nor infamous,
I, who says and writes just like a poet does,
I, an irregular poet, with some odd, lame greasy odes.
I, the phantom this land wants not to see,
I, and my secrets that they know not about.
I, who remains futile to the whole sneering stars;
and I, who is neither blind, nor able to see.
I, who in her prayers is consumed,
By the cold flaws of the universe,
I, who oft' cannot see my own skin.
I, who has but lost the warmth of my hands,
And whose heart is ice cold, buried deep in its own
Shrieking labyrinth of deadened peace.
Ah, and I, who sometimes longs just to hear thy voice,
And dream of a night of bliss with thee.

Wayne, Wayne, Wayne,
And I, thy futile friend,
With a lost conscience I have given to thy hand,
I write only a vain poem again,
I, who has denied my own taste and grace
And dreamed of bitterness, once, and disgrace.
For perhaps thou wilt not think nor say of me;
For my beauty is not a beauty to thee;
For my beauty, to thee, exists only in sleep.
When thou saith I am beautiful,
I blush and become forgetful,
But a saying is not faithful
And words are false and not cordial.
I, a friend, sometimes hear stories of another friend;
A friend for whom thy heart serenely longs;
But a vague one, like one of summer's rejected old songs.
But what about me--and my own heart;
A scar is left there that pierces it apart;
A scar that perhaps shan't heal again;
Ah, Wayne, for thou hear me not, nor see my pain.
A secret hidden deep in my lofty lungs;
A fleshy wound I have carried all along.

And I wonder why she is not here;
While she is not me, and I am her not;
And all those of her sound so lithe and bare;
But, ah, in such silence I shan't turn to care.

And I wonder why she sees you not;
And hugs you not when it freezes to cold;
Shoulder you not behind the watery rain;
Shredding not your tears, nor your grief in pain;

But I am not her, and I am not thine;
I shrink by thee still under her rain;
And in thy charms so shall she live.
Perhaps thou shalt never know,
But I am here like I am now,
Clogged in the wrath of my beauty,
Who sometimes seeks and seeks thee not.
And I am still here like now,
Frozen in the air of my poetry,
Cold in such tears that can't lie;
Caught at the eastern wings of the sky,
Unable to move, 'till thou again pass by.