The skin between your fingers is dark
And calloused from carelessly holding
those wild cigarettes, and my eyes keep
straying to the small round burns that
form a constellation on your left arm.
"Sometimes I hate myself," you shrug,
like its something that anyone would
do to themselves.

You taught me to strum out chords on my
dad's old guitar with your tough fingers
that always knew what to do. I taught
you the trick to folding paper stars, the
art in taking something flat, something
meaningless, and turning it into something
beautiful and real. But your strong, skilled
fingers made a mess of the delicate paper
and soon your attempts became nothing
more than a crumpled reminder of another
broken thing you left behind.

In the summer, when I felt most alive, you
and I would lie in the grass as you told me
about the way life will be on the outside and
I spouted memories, tales of the way things
were. Maybe it was easier for you to leave,
with you mind so focused on the future, maybe
that's why I have no choice but to stay here
and write about being locked in the past.

You never loved me and you never hurt me,
but somehow, you will always feel like my
greatest loss. That by letting you go before
I really understood you, I opened myself to
a life of wondering what happens next.

You called me a poet and a dreamer and a
thrilling new something, waiting to be found.
and we watched the sunrise as you drank down
your whiskey and I drank in your thoughts
because, for one moment, with the glimmer
of dawn and liquor on your lips, you were
beautiful to me. You were magic.