i'd given up on revolution put such an effort into
forgetting the feelings he used to inspire that i used
to have, all that hope, all that, all that, only for him
to return apathetic and passionate and grinning too
wide given the dark stains on his bomber jacket
he hangs over the back of my desk chair as i paint my
nails (not red, some still shade of blue, not symbolic)
'you read that book, huh?' he asks and i tell him not
for you, and i don't mention that i hung on his every
appearance, but i do ask why he failed each and every
character in it, and he only rolls his eyes long-suffering
once, yknow, i was serious about this, me and him,
and then he let me down he got himself shouted down
and now at best i'd probably make out with him at a
party casual, late and dizzy with alcohol and night air
and the hope of fairy lights, just because he's been to
places i want to go, places i want to go with him- fuck.
he's so worthy - so noble, considering he's one of the
people are filling the street when i see him waiting
and i ball my hands into fists so he cant see my nails
and hold them down at my side, a firmly neutral stance
revolution poses, he is languid, he takes photos, he
takes me, he takes a million others, his history is one
of fucking people over it's his thing and still i think
maybe it won't hurt this time, maybe he's better now
maybe this time our revolution will grow old with us
we'll see it through maybe we won't give him up.