An American Fall

I like that it’s cool now.

 

But as it gets colder,

I start to wonder,

“what’s really in the air;

how's this small town poisoning me?”

 

But it’s really not so small here,

just empty. 

 

There’s no one on the roads past midnight,

and there’s no one new to meet when it’s past

high school curfew.

 

It’s the shrewd parents and their diarchal moves

of Jesus and state.

 

But now that it’s cool,

and I can go out and breathe the chill

in the air,

I begin to feel American.

 

I feel like I am ingrained into these empty streets

and these seamless households,

I just don’t know if I want to be.

I just don’t know if I want to be a star

or a stripe

or just be free.

And it must be the air here that makes me wonder

if you’ll ever ever know how I feel about you,

that I was in love with you as soon as I saw you.

 

Maybe you could see that in my eyes

when we first met.

 

And I can say I've gotten used to this now,

but I don’t know if I am free

or if I am still bound by the chains

of former lovers. 

 

But when it is cool like this, I can feel you dancing with me,

like you did when we first met.

 

I never had the courage to ask someone to dance before,

but goddamn, did you see you?

 

It would’ve been the only thing I regret.

 

But we danced,

and you kissed my neck,

and then your friends took you away,

and I’ve been trying to get you back ever since.

 

Because you make me feel American

and free, 

and you make me want my nausea to end.

 

I want to run away with you,

and race in the streets,

and photograph you, looking fragile and fond

and perfect,

and tell you,

“you are perfect

and young

and American,

and I have been waiting for you

all my life.”