If I was to write about her I would write about her skin-- how it was the color and texture of cashmere,
or how her eyes were deep and dark like the universe,
pupils like black holes in the very center.
I could write about her wild personality,
or all those summer nights we stayed up until the sun came up and scolded us for the bags under our eyes.
But this isn't a love poem, you see
when I was sixteen I went crazy.
I fell down the rabbit hole and landed hard against the cold asphalt at the bottom.
I fell in love with a girl but just for a little while, because eventually it became increasingly evident that she and I were two different breeds.
But for that brief moment as I stripped my clothes off for them-- her boyfriend and her--
I came alive under the blue fluorescent lights.
We bonded through three things-- ***, alcohol and drugs.
And now every time I kiss a bottle or hit a ****

I think of her