the boy from work.

we fling rubber bands at each others faces,

when one snaps past your bangs, you are not amused.


I watch you from the bottom of the ladder,

you are telling me a tale. my eyes are wide.

you watch me watching you.


the broken broom slides along the floor,

if we had made goals, you would have won.


"we are being teenagers." we boast,

over our whines and moans. our fingers hurt,

(not from anything fun) damn rubber bands.


we get spied on, and take it completely devoid of grace.

for we are awkward and both wearing strange socks.

we blow bubbles, and smoke pot in the back.

I answer phones and speak in complete sentences.

and we are both amazed, and proud.


-"we're terrible for each other! We're too destructive."

-"what are you talking about, we're perfect for each other."