You were always
such an indie jerk, you couldn't admit
you liked my dumb music, though the
insipid lyrics made you smile when you least wanted to.
Your carefully smudged t-shirt
and jeans you insisted weren't skinny
heralded your forced nonchalance,
your grins dwindled into smirks -
I think you used to smile more -
through precisely awkward glasses,
your perfect blend of free trade and hand roasted.
I remember every band you pretended to hate,
everything you smoked,
the calculated way you didn't care.
You were an equation with an unsolved variable,
a high-tier item under a dull recolor,
and other trite, pseudo-intelligent nonsense.
I lived for the days when I peered through your affected disdain
and saw you, for a second,
faint and breathless.