“What's the word … Euphoric. I dunno, it just hit me, like a full blow to my face.”
we were on the highway by then and the air was a crisp 60,
and i smiled with her because she was crying bliss tears.
not wind tears.
sweet ones.
she deserves it, she deserves it, she deserves it.
i hug her,
but i can't share the feeling,
and by then, we end up where we started:
at the initial.
“What's pure cannot be tainted.”
i feel disappointment after she says that,
nothing is worth anything anymore,
and i feel like a ghost,
living a past that didn't exist,
making a story,
failing a reality.
i'm sorry,
and i lied about the happy memory.
i thought of something with the color emerald
and told her about
these four wrinkled hands
and some pretty ponds,
and then the wind chilled me to the bone
and with that it took my ability to speak.
colors everywhere as i sat in leather,
but i am just gray.
i have no stories to tell except that i can tell a story,
one made from stuffed animals,
pencil nosebleeds,
and cup-throwing authorities.
that's not what she wants to hear,
that's not what she needs to hear,
but i'm full of kills aided by silver knives
and, really,
silver without shine is just gray.
ten lines ago, i am just gray,
line right here, and i still am.
maybe one day when the rain has drowned the city and left it desolate but true,
i don't have to have no wind tears.
just sweet ones.