Each rung has an order
On the ladder of my
Nostalgic ascencions

They all, somehow, lead up to you;
My psychedelic drifts

When I lasso, lovingly, up in my arms
These paper-dry leaves,
I lift towards the sky,
In these shuddering fingers,
All my crumbling notions

They drift through the cracks,
And, they land in the pools of slow-swirling iridescence
That collect in the gutters
And ghettos
Of thought

Supported, for a moment, by that fluid film
That delicate skin
That crowns stagnant water

Then, sapped by the oily deposits
Of my carelessness and apathy
They're pulled beneath the surface

Their fluttering, halted;
Those unfortunate birds

I'm single. Yes, I know it's difficult to wrap your head around, but if you don't believe me, check my Myspace. Those things never lie.