sometimes i watch
the way that smoke curls up
from a lighted cigarette
and i want to hold it in my hands and
curl my lips around it
like the indie rocker boy
who’s been staring at my friend from the corner.
but the tar burns my lungs
and i am too vain for yellow teeth and yellow fingertips
and yellow eyes and black organs.
i miss the way that you paid attention to me.
you would be humming and
pretending to be working and
i would say one word and
you would stop pretending and listen.
unless you had your guitar out.
nothing could come between you and your music
and i could never come between you and her
so i never even tried.
coming in second was never really my style,
you know that.
so i watched you watch me watch you feeling the music
until you gave up trying to read my mind and
told me yours with the chords you played
and i miss that.
i miss the organized chaos that erupted from your fingertips
that were not yellow like indie rocker’s
who is now hitting on my friend
because you always said that
smoking was for losers,
which is probably right
if indie rocker is anything to go by.
he’s nodding my friend away to a corner
and we all know how the night will end.
i will have to interject and bring her home
and he will scowl at me
because she is the prettiest girl in the room
and no one can take their eyes off of her.
she’s lovely in the way i always wanted to be
but never could attain
and i guess that i’ll just wait
for another heartbroken punk kid who
needs a shoulder to cry on.
he’s usually indie rocker’s friend
and he always wants to smoke.
and it’s going to be two in the morning soon
and i am sitting here in this place
thinking about someone who already left me.