I sat in the dark,
campfire coals glowing out of my eyes,
while conversation bounced
like an old tennis ball
between my friends
and a few faces I wasn’t so familiar with.
 
And I kept quiet,
while the smoke lifted itself from the logs,
while the fire cracked
and the bottles passed
from fingers to fingers to lips.
 
Thinking that if I was fire,
I would burn slowly from the end
of whatever it is you’ve rolled up.
And if I was alcohol,
I think you’d love me again.
Thinking that if I was like him
or if you were a little more like her,
that this might have half a chance.
 
But I am not fire
and I am not liquid.
I am not lonely,
not empty
and I guess I am not exactly what you expected
or what you wanted;
that this is not exactly what we planned
or what we wanted.
 
I guess it just goes to show you
that you can only make someone
into someone else
for so long,
before then you realize
they are who they've always been,
and you’re the one who’s been pretending.