They are strangers now, swinging back and forth.
There are no fireworks, not of the romantic kind.
They are simply strangers, at a park.
One is a daredevil, one is shy;
One likes the merry-go-round, and the other? The swings.
If stars could talk, they’d prophesize such a love story.
In the beginning, she was running, and he was chasing.
At the ending, he was laughing, but she was crying.
In the beginning, there aren’t many words.
Just tickles, and shouts, and blushing cheeks.
Rips in shorts, grass stains on shirts. Promises, too.
Promises of, “If you won’t tell my mom, I won’t tell yours.”
At the ending, close to the ending, she is tired.
So he pushes her on the swing, makes her laugh.
And then he makes her fall.
So she pushes him around and around,
around and around on the merry-go-round.
And when she doesn’t stop, when he falls,
he calls her a name she’s never heard of.
“You’re nothing but a bully,”
followed with, “Well, you’re…
you’re nothing but a *****.”
You’re nothing, she hears. You’re nothing but a *****.
You’re nothing, he hears. You’re nothing but a bully.
“How do you know that word?” As they walk, side by side.
“My dad calls my mom that on Saturday nights,”
as they walk, hand in dirt-covered hand.
“At least I didn’t swing a bottle at you.”
blame it on photographic inspiration.