I Act Coy

It was cold but I was warm. We walked, and he dragged on his cigarette with more veins than hand, and the only thing in the entire world I wish he'd drag on more
was the conversation at hand. But of course I was in the past, and the future, because I will always be me. And I have spent far too much time wondering
if he has caught on to me staring at that black pen, in his back pocket, he toys with so much more than writes with. I know no one else notices him like I do, and when he speaks to me I am looking at the color of his veins protruding, when he talks about sex he does with both hands and I liked that. And I spent not enough time wondering
if I were to make him more blue.
And every time he is spoken of it is childish, bitter, and angry,
while I find him realistic, among other things.