Shades of Cool

p. r. e. f. a. c. e.

He just looked so fucking cool.

With a cliché cigarette hanging from his slightly parted, chapped lips and his gangly body draping over the brick wall behind the gymnasium. His hair is always messy, like he doesn't give a fuck and he always smells of stale cigarettes and cheap beer. His eyes are a dreamy blue that makes me sick to my stomach.

He looks so fucking cool.

Drumsticks are carelessly stowed in the back pocket of his dark washed jeans. Sometimes I'll watch as they clatter to the floor when he is shuffling down the hallway or skateboarding at The Idle. He is in a fucking band. How cliché can this kid be?

But it's working. He's so fucking cool.

Calm. Nonchalant. Breezing by. He's not aware of the wake he causes inside of me. He's not aware of me at all. He is the human embodiment of the phrase "going with the flow".

He's not Romeo.

And I'm not Juliet.

But fuck if I don't have stars in my eyes.