September

Red leaves bowed to condensation,
the curdled air upon our skin;
black birds were carried on a breeze
exempt from Autumn's sullen temper.
I sought beneath great folds of flesh
colored by the sunrise and bedsores,
arousing the vessel unbefitting
for the natural beauty of your charm.

Though unsatisfied, I yielded,
eyes closed to your piggish flush,
the sopping paste of your thighs,
those tiny irises dull as paint chips.
You admired me but soon discovered
I cringed beneath your every breath,
weak in the heat of an Indian Summer,
clutched by wet effeminate hands.

You have been alone since then,
pining for the yellow flowers of June
with too much sadness to resent me,
even when the winter fell at once.
I still revere the sculpt of your mind:
if you call, I will listen raptly
with a pierced yet unprejudiced ear;
if you die, I will write the eulogy
in the voice of a bereaved mourner;
if you wait, I may return to you
like a butterfly nostalgic for milkweed,

but today, I am vain.