Drainpipes, sticking tight to legs, old news, Rain wipes away brown dirt from black shoes. Your tragic bow and arrow, made from my bone marrow, Your magic aim, where you hit your mark, no matter how narrow. Sailing down streams made of necessary day dreams, Failing to fail schemes of winning, by any means. You have the only two possessions worth having, beauty and youth. Moments in time, frozen by a photo-both. You know it can never stay this way, Not even looking the same as you did yesterday.