I was listening to that old Strokes album
you got me for my birthday
and you were smoking a cigarette.
We were just two people
locked together by broken promises
and unrealistic expectations.
I liked the way you kissed me,
like you were deep in thought
about each brush of our lips.
But maybe you were really somewhere
far, far away,
dreaming of a life without me
where you ride your bike to work
and play poker on Tuesday nights.
You told me you wanted to know me better,
my skin hung heavy
with regret and insecurities
that you could never understand
So I laid back and watched you blow out smoke
as Julien Casablanca’s voice cooed to the highest octave,
enjoying the simplicity of the moment
but wondering how long it would be before you were gone.