he gripped that cigarette, tight to his mouth.
this was vacant air, but still. make believing that
he was breathing in through some laundered source,
it just felt right.

he thought that his thin hands
would be posterboys for this generation
represented by their respective addictions.
he thought that, with his nails painted,
he could be, in effigy, the definitive.

that boy was a shadow of a figure i used to know,
replaced with a boy who has no status symbol,
unpainted nails, and frequently resorts to that cigarette.
forgetting how he feels about the matters on hand,
he'll just assume that it's alright.

12/29/2003

Posted on 12/30/2003
Copyright © 2025 Andrew S Adams