Purple Autumn

When you leave on the light,
Not the bright lamp, but the
Purple Christmas Lights
For me,
I know.
Drunkenly taking off your socks
In a dark dorm room
Is a clusterfuck of difficulty.
You understand this.
I did not realize this until the breaker blew.
You knew.
You peered up and watched.
I tumbled into my closet
I caught your half-ass grin.
Asshole.
Thank you for the light.
The Dim Purple Light
That says a wrestler-boy can love a fem-boy.

I like that.
It's new.
New says you're familiar.
New says I'm not an oddball.
I'm not an oddball.
You remind me I'm not.
Sometimes I make your bed
And adorn it with throw pillows.
Okay, maybe I
Am.
But you spoon my Little Orange Pillow
Every night.
You compress it against your build.
I can catch the appreciation.
You're a sensitive wrestler-boy.
Maybe you're the fem-boy.
Then who am I?
...the oddball.

I stuck some Burnt Orange Thistle Globe
In a Perrier Bottle on the
Window sill.
They absorb the fallen crisp leaves
And the brisk Autumn nights.
Their heads sway like little spiky men
Under the Dim Purple Light.
You can't seem them from your bed,
But I can.
They dance their nightly gala
And whisper their spirited lullabies.
Goodnight.
Give me one more cigarette,
Then I'll join.
Each night the pile of Throw Pillows
On the floor,
Grows.
I love this extended Autumn.