High School

People ask me what we are.

Ambiguous, I say.

You call me on wednesdays, and blow me smoke rings long into midnight,

and I return to lust, burn my shame, step out of the light.

being in the darkness for a short while is refreshing.

And though I have said goodbye, many times,

I always pick up the phone and whisper hello to the night.

Addressing your reply, I see no hint of an end-

we will be old, if not frequent, friends.

I do not love you.

But I care about you more than many of the ones I do.

If you died, I would cry for months, and I wouldn't know why.

There is just something about you.

You color my world black and blue,

like the ocean; like a bruise.

but my heart is beyond abuse now,

it has grown accustomed to your fingers pressing quickly "off and on".

and my mouth has grown accustomed to making no sound.

so come, though you've robbed me, you've taught me.

come.  and we will talk of futures, of life, and of death-

we will be old, if not steady, friends.

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