I look into his eyes.
You are not here.
You are miles away
and I am  holding an open call audition.
WANTED:
A boy who does not drink
like he has something to prove.
A boy who has more than words to offer.

He leans in.
Tonight I don't back away.
We are outside,
bodies and bodies and bodies
surrounding us, dancing
around us, and I wonder
if you thought of me when
you stood here with her.

I close my eyes and try
not to pretend he is you:
Try to think of the stars,
think of the smoke escaping from the garage,
think of the eyes watching you,
think of the sweat dripping down to the dip of your back,
think of the whisky ignited in your chest—
I think of the way you smiled
when I called you pobrecito.

He kisses me.
I sway back and
he pulls our hips together.
I have not stopped missing you
in three months.
I was wrong.
His mouth changes nothing.
I still want you.
I think I hear my heart crack
but that might just be the beer bottles
shattering under our feet.

I put my hand on his chest
and push him away.
This was supposed to be us.
He was supposed to be you.
But you don't care about me
and when you kiss her,
your mind doesn't form poems.
You think about the friends
you will describe this moment to later.
When your lips leave her neck,
there is no metaphor.
The bruises are just bruises.

I walk away
and it's fine, it's fine, it's fine, it's fine.
My lips were numb anyway--
I didn't feel a thing.

WANTED:
A boy who drinks like he has something to prove.

I want tell him he is enough.