Green Lights

Her fingernails were stilettoed, but her boots were combat.

Her jeans were two sizes too big, with a chain draped across her left and profanities, which she made sure I read, stitched into the right. 

Her morals were absent, or so they warned me, and so I briefly believed when she let me drive her home, under the harsh glow of green traffic lights at quarter past midnight, after only knowing me for a few hours. 

Her number was wrong. Out of error or out of wish to never ever see me again, she punched in an extra 2 and slipped from my passenger seat, and when I tapped green light 'call' because I needed to know that her walk from my transporter to her back door didn't take her away from me, I heard nothing. 

Her attire went from Sex Pistols to Saxon as Friday turned to Saturday, and my mother demanded to know why I suddenly took so much interest in a nightlife, and the answer was so I could see her legs in glossy black leather again and again and again.

Her balefire-red lips pressed a rippled imprint onto my crippled cigarette, and the need to suck on the white sponge tip to maybe taste her rivalled my need for the nicotine. 

Her teasing lasted maybe a month or two. And her relationship with skinny Johnny with the metal studded kiss ended in that month or two. Because I kissed her beneath green disco lights whilst Whitesnake blared, and she loves Whitesnake. 

Her arms braced my collapse when I told her, under the same green disco lights, that I am severely in love with her, and  she made me sob into her aromatic neck, because she felt the same. 

Her bed was my bed that night. And her heart was mine that night and to this day still is, because nobody kisses her to Whitesnake and nobody cries for her under green disco lights and that's what she wants. 

Her love for rock and roll meant I had her every night I played. I performed for a good hundred, but sang only for her. She'd stand front row, under green stage lights, my heavy leather draped over her frame, and after the show Jackson from drums hugged her, because he loved her, and Kyle from guitar hugged her, because he loved her, and Duncan from bass didn't come near her, because he loved her too much. 

Her absence was painful to me under green disco lights, and I pressed a green light to call and asked her where she was and why wasn't she here. She said she needed to sleep. I said I'd come get her. She refused. 

Her name on my screen and her voice in my ear one week after she left me under green disco lights, asking where I was and why I wasn't there. I said I needed to sleep. I told a lie. I needed to get even with her. She said I needed to come get her. I couldn't refuse. 

Her demeanour on the phone didn't match up with the her I found outside our favourite club. 

Her eyes, grey in colour, matching her silvery waves, didn't resemble diamonds anymore, and I don't think I know a gem of the colour black, and turning a dirty green under the light, to relate to her new eyes that skinny Johnny with the metal studded kiss gave to her. 

Her tears kissed the highest points of her cheek bones and I followed suit and kissed them too, wanting to just take her away from this town, from him, and from her pain, but she couldn't leave. Her heart was mine but it belonged in the city, and skinny Johnny needed to accept that he never had her heart, and he could never get it now that it was mine because there would be nobody who I would let take it from me. And she felt the same. 
Her flaming anger echoed her fiery passion, which I adored, but not when she was scalding me, all because I may have given a small fraction of her lyrics to not-so-skinny Claire with the flat red hair, because I caught Claire's face in green stage lights looking at me with the same adoration I looked at my her with, and I was weak and felt sympathy. 

Her love and her hate were equal in ferocity, and she claimed mine wasn't, and she demanded I hurt Claire, because she felt hurt that I shared our symphony with another. I not only admitted in cold blood to not-so-skinny Claire with the flat red hair that found her repulsive, but I showed her how deep my affections ran for my her, and we kissed violently with green bottles of cheap beer catching the light, right in front of Claire. I felt like a villain, cruel and ruthless and not myself. But she made bad feel so good. 

Her compliancy matched mine when faced with skinny Johnny, and she watched almost gleefully, as me and the boys laid into him, and green ambulance lights took him away, and we ran across an empty car park, Jackson from drums struggling to keep up, and we lit up our green and smoked all our pain away in the comforting company of others who would do anything for her, just like I would, because she is otherworldly. 

Her thighs pressed against my ears twice in one day, once with me facing her, and once with me facing away from her, squinting in hot August sun to see, because we had to make love and arrived late to the Megadeth concert and didn't get under the green stadium lights at the front of the large stage, a stage she promised me I'd play one day, and that would be the day she'd stand front and centre, because she wouldn't have anybody to hold her up to see if I was preforming for the crowd, and singing to my her, under my green stage lights.