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there’s something about you in a white t-shirt
(with some dumb stamp on it reminding me
once again how smart i was
for getting the fuck out)
that makes me want to stare
(but i don’t)
(with some dumb stamp on it reminding me
once again how smart i was
for getting the fuck out)
that makes me want to stare
(but i don’t)
and it’s something about the smoke coming from your mouth
with almost every word you speak.
it’s something about how you concentrate to roll another cig,
like getting a fix of nicotine is more important than anything in the world.
sometimes i think that the earth could shake and whole civilizations burn
and you wouldn’t even notice.
has anyone told you that white looks good on you?
i would encourage you to wear it more, but then you’d stop
white all together out of sheer stubbornness, wouldn’t you?
you would go back to the blacks and blues
that make you look like a broody poet who lost his bloody muse.
white makes you look sad. it goes with your eyes, really,
and that little smile you gave me when i turned to leave.
―― or why the tee i bought you on your birthday wasn't white (n.ch)