I am a fall kid.

Autumn, I mean.

My friend Lynn, shes a fall kid too,
and we talk about how
winter is coming
and how
the seasons are about to change.

and we talk about past lovers too,
(past summer lovers)
bordello green and
periwinkle purple.
Fireworks in the night
are to us and our lovers
as color is to sound;
unrelated nouns.

we talk about the future
(and) in little increments, inching our
way to the top of the world.

"when you are famous" I say, "I'll have known a
great artist just before the discovery" and she
laughs and giggles and forgets about it.

I guess i should note that my friend Lynn,
she is a great artist.

she is the kind of artist that paints, draws,
and sketches her visions onto any medium around.

She is a typical starving artist.

she wears red and black bracelets around her wrist
and she has a nose-ring. the cute little pin-tip kind, not the
horny bull one.

she has just enough to eat, but not enough people to love her.

she does not wear her heart on her sleeve,
rather,
she wears it
in tattoo form,
on her back
and,

It
arches
when she stretches.

defiled, defeated, denounced she is.
but worthless, she is not.

Just like her dreams
and fears
and anxieties,

all of them have their own weight on her shoulders,
they all have their own place, their own gravity and oppression.

One night together in a field, she said
"I'm tired of being sorry"

"You don't have to be sorry here," i said, "under the stars
we're weightless.

I realized then,
when
she started crying
and i awkwardly
embraced her,
that we were totally different.

For her, the stars are just a reminder of how fragile
the world is,
and
how at any moment,
the stars and
comets
could
come
crashing down on her fragile 'artist' frame.







That's when I stopped loving her,

and became her friend.