She noticed his eyes lingering
a touch too long where her
legs disappeared beneath her skirt,
and how his eyes seemed to be
filled with a hunger
(for what, she could only guess),
and his fingers twitched where
she could see beneath his loosely
crossed arms, itching,
she supposed, to touch her skin,
to press his fingertips into the small of her back.
And when he finally turned his back,
traveling away from her,
she wished he looked at her that way,
rather than the dark-haired girl across the room.
And her eyes were filled to the brim
with longing.

You'd never ask me for help again,
but she did.
She asked me to make transparent
the things we said we'd do,
how you'd park his truck
at the end of the street,
and meet me just outside the reaching
halo of inconsistent light.
She asked if it were only things
we said, and of course received,
"No, we had full intentions to carry
them out, only something always
stood in our way."
Next she ignored my apologies,
and I doubt we'll speak again.
Just like you and I's last exchange.

He stands
as though
nothing can knock
him down
and has stopped
whispering to her
as she droops
far lower than before.

He grasps her hips,
lips in sync.
She slips to his neck,
he exhales;
palms inch down,
mold to the small of her back.
She nips at his skin,
hands glide further,
caressing;
down a thigh, pulls it around him.
Knee bent, hips pressed to his,
she *****, like the fish
in her pond, and he,
he gropes, moaning ever so
lightly, arousing a grin from
the girl at his throat.

Often I am nearly fooled
into thinking that lean, dark-haired boy is you,
but my mind hesitates slightly,
saying "No, that can't be him.
He holds his arms wrong,
he carries himself too low,
your boy's much more prideful.
This boys shoulders don't quite settle
into his t-shirt right.
This can't be your boy,
he's all wrong."
And with these slight observations
I carry on,
go about my life
but always
watching
for y o u.

I think maybe
there's a boy
sprawled on his bed
listening to heavy metal
and wondering why it is
he's always doing the right thing
with the wrong girl
time and time again

you can always tell
when I miss you the most
for my lips bear the sores
and my body bears the aches,
internal and out.
you can always tell because
more will be written,
more drafts left in notes,
awaiting my realization
you just can't care