He's All Cigarettes
"He's All Cigarettes"
He’s all cigarettes and art museums with masks halfway off his face. He’s all unplanned photoshoots and unfinished sentences—brief fragments as captions. He’s all pictures of the landscape and only because he cares.
He’s all famous friends with pink wigs and fake IDs going to clubs littered with purple, pink, and blue lights, the kinds you’d never be allowed into, but that fact makes it all the more glamorous.
He’s all unguided tours in historic places with his foreign friends, roaming around without adult supervision. But I guess we’re all kind of adults now. He’s all sculptures and dark overcasts in Paris and taking time out of his day to stare at works painted by dead artists.
He’s all staying up late and underage drinking, but in the kind of elegant way that makes him seem older. Red wine, not beer.
He’s that jacket hung over his right shoulder, those hands in his pockets as he strolls so effortlessly down the street. He doesn’t look towards the camera like the rest of his friends do, but it’s drawn to him. He’s just so cool, assuming a magnetic presence that attracts every observer, even an inanimate object like a lens.
He’s all here and then there that you can’t ever pin him down, a nomad traveling the earth. Just landing wherever he wants to go. He’s all passionate yet able to be detached if need be—to places, objects, people. He’s all meaningless invites—but then again, maybe he means every word he says.
He’s all premature daydreaming that you know you shouldn’t do but it’s impossible when he’s even a mere possibility. He’s all getting you excited when you haven’t been excited in a long time, an inspiration to write at 1 in the morning instead of going to sleep.
He’s that smile you give your mirror, the shout you quickly have to suppress because you’ve cracked upon the window and those who walk below the streetlamps across the street might decide to peer through the windows you never shut because it’s a hassle to unshut them.
I’m all spring semester planners with my name engraved and red fender guitars bought only in order to further some sort of a career opportunity. I’m no alcohol at all and breaking off a relationship because I’m fearful of second-hand smoke.
I’m all sunscreen and a mist to be reapplied every 2 hours. An anachronistic pink hat to be worn when I’m forced to adapt to outdoor seating.
I’m all carefully curated photos, a mirror selfie for the ninth time because I’m in control of how I look that way. I’m all stable friends who never cross any boundaries, who almost cry when their ID is questioned by the seller at the liquor store. The ones who settle for one another in the same city radius that I’m scared I might do the same.
I’m all passion channeled into obsession. I’m all high expectations. I’m all never detached even when it’s that boy I’ve been dreaming about since August and it would really help to just forget about him. I’m all waking up crying for the third time, the material objects of my tears transitioning from the dream world into the one of reality.
And yet, I never wanted so much for someone to like me.