We Fight over Nothing.

We are silent, angry.
He is sitting far away on his boyfriends right side.
We are glaring away.
One has a pack of nicotine, half full, half empty.
I am a little desperate, a little angry, a little ignored.
I want something in my mouth, something I will watch float away.
I want that cigarette.
Hes going to sit like that, his face upset until I apologize.
I Always do, Im the one in the wrong.
Always right, always concise.
I may have asked for a cigarette five minutes ago, but when we filter outside, his small body first, flicking his hood up, his boyfriend trailing after; no hood, getting his newly cut hair wet, me at the back; following, third wheel, always, my pride will be sure to rise its pretty head and snarl a refusal for that lovely, lovely, little stick of cancer.
Im too proud, I’m too bitter to be at my best friends beck and call.
I share, he doesn’t.
Maybe your terrible.
But I miss him, his hand in mine, the way I can put my head on his shoulder when I am tired and my eyes are sore from smiling.
And I reach over and hug him, asking forgiveness, stealing a drag, kissing his cheek,
Giving in.