Leaf Shadow

[Trinity_Fire]

Okay, so... I'm really not sure whether this should go in poetry or writing, as it's really just a short drabbling bit. I think someone mentioned these might be vignettes...? I don't know.
Anyway, I'd like some serious critiquing. None of that "it's cool" or "it sucks" or "it makes no sense" stuff. Tell me what you like, what you don't like, what you think needs improvement. I really wanna know if this seems polished enough, or if it needs a ton more work. (I haven't gotten this type of stuff critiqued a lot before, so I'm kinda new at this, work with me, please.)
Also, please don't go grammar-nazi on me. This wasn't meant to stick to one tense or POV or anything.

Anyway, without further ramblings...

Leaf Shadow

This air... tastes sour.
I want to give the birds I draw (of blurred blue lines, sweet
ink, and loopy feathers) haloes, of black ballpoint.

To be honest, the end of the world has begun, long since.
But it's just been coming in little bites, and
we keep pretending it's not, so much that in the end, we're
just used to it all by now.
We've never been more ready.

When the sea creeps up on the land, and water
laps at your feet... The ground will stink of rot.
No sand, just salted vegetation, underwater flower
gardens catching the green light.
We are drowning in tears...

Boy squats on the boulder, salt licking at his
heels. "Here it comes," he says. He flicks hair
out of his eyes, caught in tangled snarls. The sky
is gray as the sea. "Don't worry," he says. "The
plants are preserved. Like formaldehyde." He grins, lips
like a twist in tissue paper. I want to strike
this gargoyle from the steeple of my
home, my religion, my church.
I am afraid of finding my god.
He tilts his head back, salt trails running down his cheeks,
and he laughs; tragic, triumphant.

"Come." He holds out his hand, like the brother I
never had. I touch his fingertips, and his grip
gums to my wrist.
I slip over the water like dragonflies, skipped like a
stone. The grasses and flowers crisp in the salty breeze.
Boy's eyes are clean; the cleanest I've ever seen.

Another breeze (real, fake, you decide) skims along our fingertips
and rolls off our shoulders. I imagine a cape snapping
behind us, a towel being spread open, a hammock falling like a sigh.
I can't remember anything before this. But then
again... How can I imagine?

I open my mouth but breathe through my nose. If this
were a perfume, it would have a bittersweet name, like
wilting dahlias or purple jasmines.

And then Boy turns to me, my angel, my gargoyle. I can
almost see his wings, like leaf shadows over stone, like the
light black void under flowers caught in the glassy alcohol-water.
He leans over and he kisses me.
The ocean beneath our feet rocks to a new tide, rising.
His lips taste salty like the sea, hair caught and
cleaned between our mouths. But his kiss tastes sour.
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[theWriter]

I...liked it. I don't know what else I could really define that is flawed with it -- at first I thought your beginning two stanzas were a little random, but once I read deeper into the story, everything connected, just like it should've.

Your last line is -- I don't know how to describe it -- interesting. There's irony in there, maybe some paradox that might be true, but the biggest thing I get from this is that this attraction between these two characters was never real to begin with. But that's only my interpretation, and I'm known for being flawed.

Altogether? It was good. I can't really find problems with it, and I thought your subject matter (as well as all your very well down literary devices) was quite original (to some extent).

Good job.
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