Breaking up with the pretty girl.
From the start it’s not enough
when the thing that fills you is the sight
and not the sustainable affect.
I love seeing the pine and lumber
silver road and mountains of the same color.
But the beauty in gray – that every love poem
has claimed exists –
has never blessed a place like this.
So clouded and dark and glass and deep gray and black
that it tastes like metals.
Houses perched up on pretty hills
as if they look back down at you
laughing at your inability to see some sort of
when did blue water and bright sun – the kind unaccompanied
by much louder clouds –
become so very passé?
How do you all stand it?
Our skin is not build like a boot
and irises not built for a permanent night.
misunderstood pretty girl,
I’m leaving you
despite your humanity.
I should have listened when I was warned about your storm.
Laugh as you watch me turn to brush and dust.