the porch light moves across your body like it belongs there
as you pull your tank-top strap back up your shoulder because it
fell down your arm when your side brushed against mine accidentally,
purposely,
and you didn't pull
away.

you are young and independent. your name is a
new wave, and i think you could be beautiful if
the hollows of your cheekbones weren't so deep and
the medicine you took was prescribed.
you think you know what you want
because it is what everyone else wants. you are part of this
generation.
you spent years in school and you still can't think for
yourself, honey.

it sounds pathetic, it is pathetic, but we've become somewhat
of a martyr lately and i don't plan on switching stereotypes
anytime soon.

"i need to go," you say.
"i know," i say.
still, we don't move.