"Teenagers and Cigarettes"/"16yo lungs" (first, maybe last, draft)

"teenagers and cigarettes"/"16yo lungs"

The surest sign of youth is that
patch of dirt or grass around
the side of the house,
or that sun-bled coke can,
sometimes a windowsill-
all
scratched black
and clotted with filters,
sometimes lipsticked
(and when they are, and that color isn't yours,
oh how the heart moves),
never symmetrical in their destruction.

The escape and worry,
isolation
and happiness,
the held hands
that led to
or emerged from
each long drag instance,
won't wait for archaeology
or enraged parents
or the disappointment of an older self

to signify
like the tiny orange supernova
of the word writ in fire
between synaptic headphones.

(12.8-9.11)