She rested a hand on my shoulder and smiled,
"Nice guys finish last."
My facial expression remained the same while taking in
what left her tongue as her smile and hand soon left me.
She's going back to the other guy.
The 'bad boy'.
The kind of guy who won't consider her first,
the kind of guy who won't share how he's feeling first,
the kind of guy who lied to her, saying she was his first.
My shoulder, still warm from her hand, shrugs.
It, and the rest of me, know. I'm the guy who touches her the deepest,
I'm the guy who will do anything to see her warm, comforting smile,
I'm the guy who will wait for the bad boy to break her heart.
I'm the 'nice guy'.
She may come to me lastly, but in her heart,
I will finish first.