When I read
Great Gatsby
for some High School English class
I hated the ******* thing.
I thought Gatsby,
supposedly great
but not so much,
was such a ******* loser.
What kind of
idiot
spends his life
waiting on some girl?
Staring at some light?
Pining for some love?

Gatsby
was a fool
to my foolish eyes.

Because I stare
into the rain
across 3000 miles
and I wonder
if you left on your lantern again.
I wonder
if you're already asleep.
Or if you're lying there
awake
thinking
about me.