s.o.s.

same old shit
you ask every time
when you call me
three hours late,
"what you doing?"
and i answer,
waiting
waiting for you
because it's the goddamned truth
it's what i've been doing
since august
for every in-between call,
some small forgotten promise,
and the songs you won't let me play

it doesn't matter
i'm good at waiting.

i perfected the art
early in junior year,
lying still in bed, barely breathing
hoping she'd touch me -
a familiar scene i've repeated with you
and when
for the thirty-some-odd time, i fail
i stand in the rain,
smoking pain away.