Your head rested on the side of your shoulder
While your hand leafed through a volume of Whitman
That sat on your knees. Light sank in through the window.
This was when I liked you the best.
You spent the whole night crying about how he left you again
And I held you in my arms until I smelled eggs in a frying pan.
You still hadn’t sobered up enough to go home so I hid you
In my room and we split my food . The only thing I thought
Was that trainwrecks should not be this beautiful.
Each track left a mark on your wrist and the tan line
From your constant hospital tags was where they stopped.
You told me that you wanted to be like Plath and when I said
To stop being such a pathetic stereotype you told me to
Stop pretending I was Bukowski and handed me a cigarette.
Though you were a wreck you still blew smoke and each of
Your wheels interlocked into the ground, which I guess was me.
You always said I was your rock, and if that was true, then I was
A very very very very bad rock.
You climbed out the window, still drunk and holding your shoes.
I stared at the empty plate and laughed at the irony and
Wrote this poem in silence, except for the train far away.