I guess I could paint the sky wonderful, and put color into open wounds of grazing grass. Backward moments in frayed, feathered heavens, that reflect a twinkling hell. Looking up, you can't really help looking down. Starry moments in weathered skies. Mildew and water stains. I can't help but look at you. So beautifully morphed and sagacious. Sanguine...sanguine...veritas...requitas...oh that both could be so easy. But veri- in all its endings eludes my true meaning. Counterbalanced with an unrestful requi- that seems to never dissipate. Sand isn't all it is. Holy sands, holy beaches, holy waters. Bottled and sold at fair market value because what else can you do? Oh, your sighs. Deep in the back of your head. Oh, oh, my imitation romance caught up in a whirlwind of feminine mystique and illusion. Were it so complicated. Sagacious? The syllables I put into your vagabond being that will follow mine into green plains that I'm going to think I've been to before. Your Anglo-Saxon, Germanic, Romantic hybrid. That I could breathe in your accent; laugh in tongues long lost. Conglomerate lines of dying and death so tightly pulled into neat succession. We cannot throw together your last minute soul - however dire the need may be. Soul, soul. That we could each have one so without hollow pockets. It's a fleeting memory, that of my soul. But your soul even more so. Shooting sideways. Your glances always meant something to me. Eyes could never be such a color. Yours are what I would shade icebergs with but how can you shade anything with something that has no shadow? I think these headaches mean more than painkillers can tell. When it's a liquid dehydration that puts me on edge. There's something I couldn't come to today. Were life made up of cellar doors and dandelion caresses with hints of nightshade. That everything you read could turn your heart inside out and send your soul running, your mind racing, for the fear of a great and terrible beauty. The reason we watch blizzards and could almost be satisfied with being buried in such purity maybe it would be cleansing or at least catching. The curve of your arm says so much next to your clenched jaw and I want to reach into your gentleness despite knowing it's barely there. Because I couldn't reach you. Sylvan thoughts never could. As if I'm sylvan, I'm sure. But shrouded and overgrown into a methodical, chaotic darkness. Your boughs ascending, detaining. Tree-like metaphors...I know, I can barely stand them myself. I look at all that is horrific and terrible (I still cannot bring myself to fill in that last line, and parentheses could get me started for hours) and it pulls me. Not necessarily forward because directional progression is arbitrary. But further into it, no doubt. I see your grimace, I know it must register. But I'm only pulled into your delicate curves because I cannot resist statuesque subtleties, you know I never could. Nor could I ever resist the opportunity to cause some breed of strife, if only to erect another beautiful word in memory of the red faces dead and dying. These headaches, sir, are much more than they seem. The acute sensitivity confirms it. The perceptibility. Oh, if you knew, could know. Where all my mausoleums raise and rest. Sweet mess and delusion. You know...you you you. No. It's not me me me. I promise. It's a space away. Because to look into myself is too much. An obvious case of avoidance. But never mind that, those things you weren't supposed to hear murmured. Casual, casual. Sight, breath. Your sighs again. You you. Yes. I could dissolve your person into nothingness and go on forever. Shine shine on lovely one shine. Tarnish never stood in your way before. But maybe our lives are iron wrought and belong in New Orleans, where all mysterious beauty does. Haunting street lights you know you wanted little else. We'll paint because what else is there to do in a sinking ship? We could fish, but despite all the patience I have, it's not quite enough.