Gray Gardens

The gray gardens grow in a gray apple grove about which Byron wrote he watched nymphs turn to snow while burying something (contents unknown) on an otherwise unremarkable day in cold late April or colder early May. There are ruins of benches, triangles of glass. The kids used to smoke here instead of go to class and then at night, get drunk and screw. Nymphs of this age transformed into dew on the tops of tulips and old chevrolets, discussed in the papers or while parents pray that the gray will be lifted, burned through like mist. The gray gardens grew on the place where we kissed in a dream that we shared from our lone separate beds. The gray gardens grew from where a nymph bled out long eons ago, clutching her wounds – pierced by the point of a crescent moon. How soon the color washed out is still speculated. The gardens offer insight into how a medicated fuzzy distant place would feel, that is if such a place were real. One night there were jackals lurking in the shadows. I carried you back to the car in the dark, and while I was running you noticed the stars changed from gray to white.

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~ by perfectionatrix on February 7, 2011.

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