I was 17.
My hair was shaggy, I finally had some
curves, and my room was always a mess.

He was 18.
He was taller than me by a foot, so strong
and devastatingly charming.

He was a gentleman.
He never sagged his pants, he liked big
expensive watches, Zippos, and taking
girls out for dinner.
He'd offer to drive me home even though
I live down the street.
The first night we met he shook my
hand just like a man should.

He was grandma's basement.
A secret place that's always a mess
with crushed beers littered on the floor,
bleary stains, and ***** smells.
Where Tuesdays are spent like Fridays
making memories with friends we all
hardly remember.

He'd try to sneak looks at me from
across the room.

He was my best friend.
We saw each other ever day for
weeks, never getting sick of it.
We swallowed pizza like air, talked
with our mouths full, and belched
like a couple of boys.

He was FIDLAR.
One day I said, "Have you heard this band?"
He stared at me in a daze, turned up
the volume, and that was that.
The whole neighborhood could hear us
singing along that day.

He was a green Chevy Tahoe.
It could be heard from down the street.
I'd wait to hear the roar outside my window.
The passenger seat, a second home.
My feet on the dash, his wrist dripped
over the steering wheel.
We had no cares in the world.

He was getting high
at 3 in the morning outside my
house while my parents sleep.
I already felt like I was on drugs, so
no high compared.
But we laughed, and laughed, and laughed
some more until out ribs were sore.

He was a pack of camel blues.
His lips stained my neck. Nicotine on
my tongue, so sweet.
He'd flip a stoge for luck, leaving it for last.

That's when I knew.
Maybe we'd get lucky somehow.

Has she ever noticed the
pungent smell my skin leaves?
When he goes back to her,
leaving me for last.