Barometer

I'm waiting for the perfect to come back around

I hear it's voice

Sometimes

Catch an almost glimpse

Darting around the corner

The edges of my eyes

Watered

Like a field of weeds

In a nor'easter

I'm waiting for the simple to mean something heavy

Brace myself

Inside

And hold tight to ropes

Tied to a subtle causeway

My heaving breaths

Filtered

Like a used cigarette butt

On the old armoire

I'm waiting for my logic to match up with the facts

And box it in

Half alive

Grinning lobe to lobe

Wrong all along after all

But I don't mind

Damaged

Like a, like a, like a, like a

Y'know