this is for you, the one I got tired waiting for.
didn't you know she was so much more than your number one fan?
. . .
and we'll go out in style
because it's all drum beats and synchronicity
and your bright limelight and the golden thread
that the world oh-so-desperately attempts
to hold onto. don't swallow the neon-flavored
city; don't bite off more than you can chew.
(because you'll end up drowning in the streets'
(shadows)light; you'll end up swimming against
the pull of gravity and the sureness of (the absence
face it – you can't fly.
we all know you're no superman. yeah, you're just
a small fish in a big polluted pond, and yeah, you
want the whole world at your Chuck Taylor-ed feet but
in the end, when all your fans have gone home and
moved on with their smaller-than-ant lives, who was
the one left standing in your empty stadium? no one,
really. just that girl who you locked eyes with for about
0.000000000001 seconds. and no, it's not the pretty
blonde who was smoking outside your dressing room.
it wasn't the red-head who was wearing just a little
bit more than her underwear. oh, please.
it wasn't them.
it was just that girl who had hoped to hang onto
the thread of whatever-the-hell-that-was longer.
yes, you don't know her. no, she's no one important;
just some fangirl of yours – like everyone else on this
oblate spheroid. but guess one more time. that
unimportant candle flame-eyed girl didn't want to
leave just yet. tell me who it was who danced in
the darkness for you. tell me, so that I'll be able
to go outside and melt in the city of rich(poor) chrome
and those skylights you dreamt you'd catch one day.