I was still mesmerized by you,
leaning against a faded brick wall
lazily flicking a cigarette
against the 90 dollar jeans
I believed you ripped yourself,

when your mouth opened and all I saw
were those perfect lips, that perfect mouth—
your words hardly registering,
some blasé speech
I bet you pre-rehearsed,

“you know, desperate time desperate measures
and all that jazz—”
with a non-committal hand wave
as if accountability was a fly in the air
you could swat away.

I stared at your hand,
suddenly hopeful you’d choke
on that Marlboro Red,
and realizing the problem with pedestals:
there’s no graceful way to fall off.