The white shirt
Was meant to impress,
Soft and lacy around its ends.
Courage, gliding against my skin,
As if he would notice me
Only because of it.

But of course,
Life had other plans.
Mine came in the form
Of paint.
Deep, crimson red,
Brightened on its ghostly canvas.

The shirt was ruined,
You would never know
How I wanted to just feel special.
But it doesn’t matter
Because you still smiled
And I still laughed

But now I can’t laugh
Because I know the truth.
How she had you
And broke your heart.
How you’re so sure
She’s the one.

And where does that leave me?
The friend? The one who reassures?
The one who tells you that she’ll come around,
That she’s the girl you love,
That girl with the trombone.
Oh, how I now hate the trombone.