Twenty Something

I am bleach: This is the evening where
The sky turns crimson with your thoughts.
I can touch your breath... my world feels like air,
Hot as pine straw, stuffed in this scarecrow suit.

Just like Wendy in Marietta, my old 3 0 0 6 4,
This is the evening when the sky turns to charcoal.
I can taste your dreams: I'm standing solitude in a field,
A graveyard without graves; I can smell your tears.

I've opened the shutters of your anti-poetics:
I can see your lust and I can hear your pain;
I meant nothing to you save love,
You meant everything to me for the fact that I hid it so poorly.

Anymore, nothing matters because
I've forgotten what it's like to be so empty:
The tiny raindrops of shattered glass
Spread out on the crossroads of my stagnation.

I'm trapped in the eye of this rusted needle;
Mr. James, he's been so bad to them, and to us.
But, it all works out when I reach that end,
Skipping past your violet remorse.

I want to hold you in my gaze, with my lazy sight
And the cross-eyed wind that cuts you into pieces;
I want to hold you while you shake off the cold,
Balancing on the dull green blades.

If only I knew some great foreign phrase,
Something to sweep you off your feet
And up into the great wide black and blue
Where the stars hang on my every word.

The wild grasses dance in the twilight
At your side, at my side,
Close around, but not crowding
Yet, I can't keep the birds away forever.