The moon shines like a beacon in the night,
Giving off it's beautiful, pale moonlight,

Here we are under the moon's glory,
As if we were in some fairytale story.

Your arm wrapped around my waist, walking on the beach,
Toes in the sand, the color of bleach.

The clock strikes midnight, but I don't have to go,
My clothes won't turn to rags, poorly sewed.

My carriage is not a pumpkin in disuise,
Besides all I am is real, I'll tell you no lies.

I have no glass slippers to wear,
I only have my love to share.

With us together,
Our lives are getting better...

My favorite color
Is your smile

Scribbled in a pre-*** haste
of hormones and awful
music taste,
your name on the back of a receipt
is no way to treat
a one night stand
that you met at the bar;
held hands with in the street;
and subsequently left when
the night became light and neat,
tidied up in a 10am alarm clock
call.

Could’ve waited until
we were both awake,
that way the alcohol would’ve warn off
and we could take this major issue
for what it was-
excitement;
and much anticipation; and placing into
action every lesson learnt from Nick Hornby books,
or pieces of information tucked
deep within our internet bookmark lists.

At least stay until after
Desert Island Discs
next time,
because then buses shall be running
on time, and you won’t have to risk
the public transport roulette table
that spins around this town,
this great noun in the Anglia east.

Now it's the news, and the news
is you've gone.  For a moment
I slipped back into a sleepy cement,
making for rough fingers-
that last night made the ascent
up to warmer climates.

And now back to lonelier nights
and Nick Hornby books,
afternoon wake-up calls
from Mum, back home,
asking how to download
the latest Google Chrome.

My eyes were running.
Thoughts, too.
Whatever this was
that had taken over me
was...confusion.
Overall confusion.
Of course counter that with anger,
vulnerability,
mostly adrenaline,
and you get whatever this is:

A disconcerting wetness.

Tried to decipher
what this couple was
and who they were.

Husband and wife
on an anniversary night?

Girlfriend, boyfriend,
on a first date trend?

Paid woman of the evening,
drinking his cocktails, ignoring his ring?

Well here are the facts,
the things that matter:
she had red hair to match her skirt,
skin coloured boots
(the height of the lights)
that blended in,
smudged in with
her thin skin-tight tights.