from where i stood across the room
he looked like a bad boy, one of those
you know better than to get yourself
wrapped up with a guy like him bad boys
a james dean type of way with
his faded black leather jacket
and his white v-neck shirt.
he leaned, side against the door frame,
scanning the room almost unknowingly.
before i could wonder what he was searching for
his gaze fell on me and he raised his brow
acknowledging that he saw me, seeing him too.
the instant his blue eyes locked with mine
i knew that i was done for, one look from him
and i knew i was in trouble. he must have known too
for he couldn’t help but smile before he gave me
a subtle nod, and walked away.


it turns out that boy wasn’t a bad boy after all.
he was anything but. like myself; an artist.
his smooth jazz music late into the mornings
and now he’s the inspiration for my art.
he was quiet but you could hear his thoughts
you could see passion on his fingertips.
he was no longer some stranger in a crowded room,
no, he was laying across the end of my bed.
every wall i have ever built crumbles anytime
he’s within my immediate reach, he keeps me safe.
he keeps me safe the same way his worn leather jacket
kept me warm that night i was ready to give it all up
and he took me outside to stare at the sky, to stay with me.
with the soft of his hand he wiped a tear from my cheek,
told me things were going to be alright someday;
it could have been the cheap wine i drank or the feeling of
him pulling me onto his chest to lay until i was sober again
but i knew it was going to hurt like hell if i ever had to lose him.


he knocked on my door late one Friday night.
cheap vodka and warm beer were already
coursing their way through my veins so
i wasn’t the one who answered. i couldn’t
hear him, but i could see him through the gap
and he was anxious, he had something
he needed to share but once again i was too
messed up, fucked up, to be the same friend he was to me.
the next day i woke up in pain, screaming his name
mourning over his name as if over night i lost him.
after all these years, anytime he drifts into my mind,
i still wonder whatever was he doing
standing at my door, two in the morning, guitar in hand.


when he left, i didn’t wait. i did’t hope to hear from him.
i didn’t hear from him. i forgot about him.
we didn’t have any pictures, he never wrote any real songs
for me so there was nothing left behind to remind me of him.
he wasn’t the bad boy i expected him to be. he wasn’t the
bad boy anyone warns you about. there’s no preparing for
the kind of pain he caused. i knew it was going to hurt but
i didn’t know a part of me would still be here, still waiting.

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