In the cold March air, the clouds
conglomerate into a frigidwind blanket
to sail 'cross the sky
and wrap me in gray.

I am on this metal vessel
needing not even to breathe when air
goes through my skin and into me,
absorbing all my thoughts.

This puddle has stretched into ocean.
The autovoice blurts out the timeframe I have
to explore my meanderings uninterrupted.
You perch on the rock while I move away.

What is it about him?
I watch 17 year old boy staring up at the gray
with green eyes, smiles that make those girls weak in the knees-
and it's there but it isn't.

Other times, places, loves...
like the way you can lay blue cellophane
over whats already seen
and see both.

But that blue's just not real.
Not what's now, not what's current.
Like a ghost from a dream that I've never had
with a face that I just don't recognize.

That's when you say,
"Trisha, maybe one day..."
And it could, but it isn't
and I'm not with you.

So we sail on by with the wind to our faces
and the rain just beginning to pour on our heads.
You're not right, you're not right, you're not right for me now.
You're a bittersweet pretaste of could-be that's making me sick.


(The vessel kept riding the swells and the fades
and the mainland came right in close
and the rain still poured our heads but my smile
was never for you in the first place.)

03/25/2004

Author's Note: I love you baby -xoxo

Posted on 03/25/2004
Copyright © 2025 Trisha De Gracia