He stopped reading. Perhaps it was a deliberate decision or a slow progression, but either way I lost touch with the intellect of a demi-god. In high school the brush of his side-swept hair was poetry; he never picked me, but then, not many do. I caught his attention with my bullets of truth, and small leaflets of art that his hands would rifle through. But somewhere, he dropped off. His horn rimmed glasses and cappuccino stained vegan threads slipped off the scene. He was the boy I spent much time in the bathroom stall pining over, praying to God between passing periods that I would be interesting enough to be noticed. He noticed his girlfriend. But then again, who wouldn't? My pink fo-hawk was overlooked. She was long legged and mean; she would fight a circle chainsaw. Her lips were pierced and the glitter on her eyes was glamorous. She was a super hero...I was only in the minor-leagues. That was before I'd had the courage to take long drags on Marlboro Reds or "experiment" physically with tattooed boys from downtown bars, or linger in the faces of pierced, drunken stupors whose hats consistently hung more sheets to the wind than I could ever count. I was still young. I was too young to hold his interest. I touched his hands once; I lingered there. I made it count.
 He smelled like Old Spice and Gin.

 I kept writing because of him.