She's sick of synthetic happiness,
smoke that makes her smile.
She'll kiss you in the moment,
thinking wow it's been a while
since she has felt alive,
or anything really.
She still didn't feel it with lips against hers,
***** and coffee (that's a thing, she learned.)
French toast at 3 am, let's drive around
scream at the tops of our lungs
"Did you make it to the milky way to see the lights are faded?"
the colors are faded,
I'll watch her blood fade as it mixes with hot water
swirls around the drain.
She's done telling me that the red won't change a thing
because our breath won't change a thing,
and the drinks won't change our heads
and the lips won't fix my missing you
I don't want to be here,
but where.
Run around the car three times at a red light,
try out listening to that new band.
Go to a club, wear something tight.
Drink more, stumble, laugh,
kiss someone you don't have feelings for.
Thank someone for saying you're pretty,
smoke another cigar. Inhale through your nose,
smile big in pictures,
smile big at people who smile big at you.
Slow dance drunk in the common room,
crack your back, love, call him up,
throw things. This isn't a poem.
It's a list.
Of what
has not
once
made me feel okay again.
Here is a list of
what makes me feel
at all:
you.