drop the ashes
from your cigarette
on my grave -
your white lighter
hangs out of your jeans
pocket, drag a hand
through your messy
black hair -
you are the embodiment
of every poetic cliche.
all anger and angst
and lost love and
all the women who
fall at your feet
and fall at the phone
desperate for you
to call them again the
morning after.
I wanted to be the
only girl you ever
loved, really loved-
and maybe I was.
but old habits are
hard to break, and
**** if I didn't try
to break you of your
cigarettes, **** if
I didn't try to get you
a haircut, new jeans.
throw away that lighter.
for awhile I had the
privilege of kissing
your mouth when it
didn't taste like
smoke, and **** if you
didn't wear those jeans
for awhile. but my
mother was always right -
you can't change the broken
boys anymore than you can
save them, and they
certainly don't save
you.