The speaker begins by undercutting himself. The road ahead "does not exist," and then he tells us not to take him seriously. It's an odd way to start, as if he wants to say something true while keeping a safe distance from it. Then he drops the pretense and says it doesn't matter: what he's really thinking about is a girl twisting beneath him in a red room.
The mood is hazy and dreamlike, a mix of desire and wistfulness. The repeated red, with her breasts "red upon red," makes the room feel close and overheated, almost like a single blur of color. The comparison to folding leaves softens the scene and makes it feel natural rather than crude. By the end, the memory or moment has turned into "a song in my head," something he wants to hold onto. The last line is broken and a little unclear, but it seems to wish for the feeling to stay in the sky, lasting always. The speaker seems unsure of the future, yet certain of this one moment.