He was my perfection for a little while—
Rose buds and tourniquet dances that you can only suppress for so long.
His hairline was misplaced,
Only because you couldn't identify it in the tangle of his hair
And his eyes?
He never looked anyone directly in their eyes.
They were lust-lorn and driven by
Afflictions of the heart.
He'd mount the stage every night
With just his guitar
And rhythm
And the promises he didn't mean to break,
But are now laying there/
Shattered on the floor.
He'd spit into the microphone the convulsions of all his past childhoods
And his heart would explode
Showering his audience's tearstained faces,
Feeding their feeling that they can't quite place
But can no longer bear.
And as soon as he and the audience became one,
Suddenly blurred with shuddering vocal cords,
You could just briefly make out the pattern of his matted white wings
Taped carefully to his sweat-drenched back.

A/N: Possibly not-so-good, maybe a little choppy, but if I didn't get it down soon I was going to explode.