Outside, smoking

I sit outside smoking, waiting for you to come over and sit next to me. It isn’t likely that you will, but I still expect it.
This is weather that I am not used to but love anyway.
I hope that you understand I don’t always do this. I used to be right and wait inside by the phone, not by streetlights in the cold. But now my hands are dirty from your hobbies and I cough too much for being so young.
I was disappointed when I didn’t hear from you, even though I promised that I didn’t want anything. But you should know that I tend to lie.
I don’t know what you made me lose faith in first: honesty, relationships or people. Either way, I have a hard time believe that much will last. Of course, that could have come from my own experiences and have nothing at all to do with you anyway.
I still hold out hope, though, still look for the boy that might keep me together longer than you did. I sear for you qualities in them, mark off bullets on a list I haven’t yet committed to paper.
I won’t commit though. That would be admitting that you were right, that I miss you and that I never could have taken you for face value. That is just something I cannot do yet.
It hurts—my bad knee, the smoke I spend nights inhaling, wanting you from so far away. When I left I thought things would be easier and there would be less to remind me. But this is where you belong. More than I do anyway.
You have no trouble fitting in and could have made these friends easily. You wouldn’t have struggled.
I am finding comfort in surrounding myself with boys again. I almost forgot to worry, to remember that things ca so easily go bad.
But jealousy moves fast with your kind. Even those without the right hate seeing something that isn’t theirs. But I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to keep everyone happy, to keep from ruining things too quickly.
But it is happening anyway. Already things are falling apart. And all I can manage is to think of you.