Dimples

It’s a mad rush to the gift card line

no parking at car4 Laval

the kids want vanilla bean drinks

from Second Cup

and I want to avoid every single

person I know. This time death

dictates how sadness eliminates

joy to the world.  I walk

into the lounge

and meet too many boys

asking me what I do.

I’m not easy to impress

with mediocrity,

I suppose ignorance is bliss

and the Greek phiolosophers

are so right,

but this whole scene

is oh so wrong.

It just appears to be fun

as my friends go for smokes

and I sit alone most

of the night

talking to myself

writing in my head

thinking of my comfortable bed.

Too pretty to be here

too old to care,

about what you do

or how you stare.

Purple lights and rain

ease the Cosmos and shots

numb all the fucking pain,

but you still slide into 

my mind,

with your bad attitude and treasure finds.

You still reappear among the vines

in our make believe forest.

You can come in and out of my life

like ink in my pen.

I don’t want to hear

I’m beautiful

from strangers

I just want to

hear it

from you.

Yet I’m so drunk

I listen

and smile.

Cute  dimples, he says.

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