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

of) time.

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.