for the rockstar (kurt)
he is the music he plays
dipping, swaying to the music
his eyes clouded by the smoke
of another inhaled cigarette
but it's ok, it gives him an edge
and the tank-top clad 20-somethings
will descend on him soon
slipping scraps of digits into
his torn and already full pockets
but he doesn't care, doesn't matter
he'll never call them, the faded women
past their prime wanting one night
alone with the local rock star
and here I am, the minority again
his muse at times when nothing
no greater inspiration surfaces
he gazes at me through the haze
and in my eyes he knows what
i'm noticing but will never say
i wonder what he thinks when
he looks at me with one eye closed
when I'm taking in his every word
feeling his soul echo inside my head
i'm drawing pictures on paper napkins
in blue ink of his face and the lips
that can make or break me
singing words to the audience that
he said to me late last night
he looks so vulnerable and fragile
waiting for their approval and
compliments, wave of applause
but I never comment, knowing
when he goes home with me
he'll only find his faults and try
harder to do better next time
i want him the way he is now
distant but close enough to hear
my breath in the darkness
there's something about him I need
his body next to me and the faint scent
of stale smoke and cheap alcohol
embedded into his skin like
a tattoo and reminder of the time
he spends selling his soul on stage
paying dearly for the fame
and giving up pieces of himself
he's asleep and curved against me
his chest rising and falling softly
and there's something about him I need
but we are too afraid to realize
and understand just what it is that
is keeping us constantly connected
through a maze of thirty miles
fake id's and mass underage consumption
but through all this I think he knows
that I'll be here tommorrow
as long as he keeps singing