Rust and Ruin

There's a breeze blowing on me

It's whistling songs into my ear

I can hear all my memories

But I can't hold on to anything

I took a walk last Saturday

without ever leaving my home

I thought of you coming through my door

And then I woke from a dream

I've been tumbling down empty streets

Avenues trimmed with rust and ruin

Leaning against tall buildings

I used to play it down, now it's coming round

I used to shake it off, now it's shaking me

There's a breeze blowing through the trees

All my nerves go nerve goes weak

And I go down

to the middle and the surface below
to the trembling streets all torn apart

Down to the trouble ringing out like a siren

Down to the pressure and its folding me properly

I've been tumbling down empty streets

Avenues trimmed with rust and ruin

Leaning against tall buildings

I'm trying to hold on but everything's crumbling

Cerulean Dream / The Name of a Poet

I was her passenger

on a dark blue freeway.

"I want your last name."

"Really? ...but, why?"

"Because it sounds better. It's cool.

It would just look good on my work."

"On you're writing, you mean?"

"Yea! I could carry on the name.

Whenever I publish something

your name will be there, too.

You know?"

I was baffled by her proposal, but

more so of her ambiguous enthusiasm,

the seriousness of her tone,

the earnest of desire.

As she steered the old Corolla

around muted blue bends,

a dusty sky churned behind

ashy blue mountains.

I glanced over at her.

She had that subtle smirk of hers,

a purple tank top,

her skin softly aglow.

All around was a cerulean shade

save for the flicker

of indicative red lights

"I guess I just don't understand.

You only want my name?"

Pressing on the pedal

she bent her smile

and quietly 

burned down the Caldecott