summer, scopes n windmills

Whatever's makin you think that the sun'll greet me, I dunno, I only Know what's in front of me, and tonight that isn't you, and it hasn't been for (checks the worn fingernail countdown on the side of the wall) nine days or months, it's gettin kinda hard to tell y'know, but I close my eyes and breathe slowly through my one nostril and think of the people you've never told me about and all the ancient cities you've been lookin at through the kaleidoscope you bought at the airport.

So I stir back n forth in my leather rolling chair, wondering how short the summer would look if I were on top of a windmill mountain, looking down towards hundreds of asymmetrical windmills, peppering the peaks, the stripped-down mountains of North Country, so ugly and efficient and real— if I were to look past them, as I've looked past all the blinding moments of jealousy and sorrow that've plagued my life's departures, I would see the cold, dark ocean, the blanket to keep me warm since you've still got one eye jammed into that kaleibelscope thingy; on a cold night like the one you flew away, it wasn't about who was right anymore, but about who would be left.

An' so I was left, left to take a nother breath while staring at my favorite wall, occasionally glancing at the empty Coke bottle you had left me to lick at, while with an open mouth I sit unchanging, furious hands scribbling across the battlefield you've left in your wake, mental picktures prying into the night I thought was only mine, but naw — it's shared — between the breathing body searing the leather and the ghost lying across the bed, while the rain pours outside so softly, so springlike, so sweet— an' so with your scope in my hand, I roll around writin down all the words I used to Know,

an' when the wind takes ya here, together we'll greet the sun, and turn all those words into music.