Music filters out the café door
where I sit with my friend,
cigarettes and coffee in our hands,
commenting on the dress of
passersby, who could care less
about our existence.
Though she wants to be great,
she fears doing something not ordinary.
Once, she was great at soccer
but it wasn’t cool to play anymore,
so she started to play the violin,
which I don’t think is all that cool.
Sleeps with me cold nights
when she “can’t handle it anymore.”
Is always gone before the morning light
can break through my window.
Calls at noon and brings me lunch
because she knows I “always make dinner.”
She brings a bottle of wine
and magazine clippings with my name
to show how great I am,
even though we both know
she is a better person than me.
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