Douchebag and Square

Are you aware of how
the purple light transcends you,
as you inspect Kandinsky's final work?

I watch you from across the hall.
I hope you know.
I shouldn't hope you know.

I stand there hostage to inadequate attraction,
just wishing this leftover youth away.
My butterfly heart, speechless, trembles
and there I have you—standing next to me.

Just look at us—
admiring the brushstrokes
of a Russian pervert.
His palette softened
in the margins of a
cold hard war.

I hold my breath.
Why do I hold my breath?
It’s stupid being human.
I don't want it anymore.

To what end am I trying to catch your glance?
Are we about to walk towards the rainbow holding hands?

I should be heading home.
I should be unperfecting this abstraction.
I’m too late to this party.
I should be getting older now.

But look at you—
transcended by the purple
that's a shade too bright.
A final painting
placed behind an open casket,

as Kandinsky once more disappeared
into the night.
And I, once more,
confuse the tunnel
for the light.