You Said I Was A Firework

You said you were happy because your shiny new girl
was our kind of weird
and I struggled to make sense of it.

I thought of her long blonde hair
and big blue eyes
and how she takes her shoes off at the door,
and how she leaves her things around
but never laughs at my jokes,
just raises her eyebrows
and purses her lips,
like she belongs.

I thought of my wild, unruly hair
and how I talk too much
and want too much
and laugh too loud,
and I wondered what you saw
that made you think
we were the same.

I thought of that time in the dark
when you told me I was a firework
and I shone brighter than a thousand suns
and I was good ‘cause I was different.

I think maybe you told her that too,
I think maybe she’d like it.

I thought of how you laughed with my friends
and held my hand on that scary ride,
the one I agreed to do just to impress you.
I thought of how we haven’t spoken in a year
but I think I saw you on a train
last December,
and I wanted to say hi
but some things are better left unsaid.

You said you were happy and I said I was too,
and I wanted to mean it
but my insides were burning,
and I didn’t understand,
‘cause you said I was a firework
and then found yourself a brighter star.

You said you were happy and I said
I’m happy for you,
but when my friends ask about you
I still don’t know what to say,
and I still think of that ride,
and I think maybe I imagined it.

But if I close my eyes
I remember how it felt
high up in the sky
on that rollercoaster,
and I see the city lights in the distance
and we burn, burn, burn.