It's midnight and we're sitting on the roof and your hand is on my knee and I'm leaning my head on your shoulder and you're saying something about the stars, about how bright they are, about how they look the same on the other side of the world, something cliche like that. But they don't, do that? I hear a door slam from somewhere inside and I can feel you flinch. You're not supposed to be here, I guess. You think I've got someone else, but I don't. He broke up with me yesterday morning, on the front lawn as he squished a cigarette under his shoe. I hate that he smokes, hate it. You don't smoke, and your hair is nice and you hold my hand. But you haven't said anything to me tonight that hasn't sounded like something from a cheesy movie or one of Shakespeare's sonnets. Shakespeare was a cheater, did you know that?

I have to go, you say, squeezing my knee. I know, I say. You're not supposed to be here, and I'm not sure if I want you here anyway. I offer to let you sneak in my window and down the stairs and out the front door, but you opt for the cliche. I sigh, watching as you shimmy down the drain pipe.