Sunday Mourning

I remember deep, blacklight purples
and forests of evaporating foxfire
that teased the rigid darkness,
tense like a squinted brow.
Everywhere I turned, a silk pillow of
cold air found my face in the
barn-turned-amphitheater.
It was a victorious Saturday night,
but neon faces revealed only
funeral procession angst.
-No smiles-
-No sounds-

You sat Indian style on
cobweb wooden stage planks,
tuning your guitar, picking
imaginary lint from its corners.
Your hands moved with ritual--
but your eyes, fetal cowards,
curled in the corner, taking kicks.

When you stood there, in front,
your protruding hips holding up
your perfectly pitched crutch;
when you stood there,
and those first syllables
poured through your bitten lips;
when you stood there,
the lights molded around your
delicate ears, sifting through your hair--
you were a martyr.
Everyone held their breath as
you cried lyrical tears.
They watched,
and wanted to save you.

I imagined you and me under covers.
You were happy and had blue eyes.
I pulled the linen up over my head,
and your fireflies lit my mind.
I saw the frail hairs
on your arms and neck glowing
in a dim yellow haze.
And you laughed and you were happy.

Now, you sink.
A great structure with no foundation,
bunkmates with your own execution.