It's when I write about you
that everything gets clear again,
the compass points North again,
I'm found when it's you I write about.
Silly, you, my last cigarette
that it's today, then it's tomorrow,
then it's never
(might denote substance abuse on my part,
lack of substance on yours,
plenty of essence, silly eyed you).
Your stubble-ness that never hurt
my skin, my drama queen attitude
that's so last year.
We've both grown, now
irony is free, a laughter
that wakes up the neighbors, mine,
your sobriety, sober shirts, sober posture;
you don't get my jokes anymore, do you?
Silly serious grown-up haircut,
stick my fingers up your nose,
teach you how to be stray and free again,
tell you all is good, I still love you
like an orphan a passer-by, you
so northerly cold, fierce, insecure, mask
behind which my golden silly one lies sad
unaware of substance, essence
caught on a leash that's his own free will.