you look like sex.

You don't smile much because you think sobriety

looks best.

Ironic for someone who's constantly searching

for a new substance to start your blood surging.

You grow a beard of scruff,

not out of laziness, but to prove you are old enough

to be too old for a tiny little high school.

Beneath your bottom lip is the hole from the stud,

I remember the way you used to suck on it, suck, suck, and let go.

I watched you grow over the course of eight years.

Watched you transform from a bullied boy to the most popular of your peers,

all resting on the strings of a guitar,

the vibration of your vocal chords,

the tap tap tapping of your sticks upon drum skins –

now, no one would doubt you're a rock star.

We never spoke, brushed shoulders and shared awkward jokes,

I dated your best friends,

I sang songs over your notes,

yet apart from the stage, we were never close.

I watched your heart break, watched you construct your mask of fake,

of cool, knowing I'm the fool.

Sometimes, while day-dreaming, I'd reach out and admit

it was you I loved all these years.

But then I remember my place,

and melt backwards behind the shadow your face.

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