you look like sex.
You don't smile much because you think sobriety
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.