Please Don’t Contact Me for Approximately 6 Minutes, I’m Blasting Bohemian Rhapsody in My Car
Like a cigarette I don’t actually want, I’m just using it to engage in a conversation with you,
That I’ll forget about tomorrow.
The nicotine in the air filled with your whiskey breath,
I needed to pause for a second because the world was moving too fast for me to care about why I approached you in the first place.
Truth is, I didn’t.
I didn’t care to know your name.
Where you’re from.
Who you’re with tonight.
What your favorite drink is.
No, I just wanted to ask you for a drag of your cigarette—my form of validation letting me know that if there’s something I want, I can get it.
And I did.
And as you reach the end of a cigarette that quickly dissolves in the air between us, I toss the bud to the ground between my sneakers.
Look back at you.
Thank you.
And leave.
Because at the end of the day, I never wanted an intimate exchange, just a quick surface level disposable one.
Where my eyes will be imprinted on you until the next morning,
And I,
quickly begin to forget who you were in seconds. . .
And this, this is how I run away from anyone who could possibly care about me:
With a little drag of a cigarette.
So excuse me, I’m going to blast Bohemian Rhapsody in my car and forget about you in 6 minutes.