The terraces and neglected cafes stays pretty, and even quiet.
The weight of day. The sunset sugar pills. Blue lamppost, a big blue.
Teasing bastard friend, mocking the boy with the piercing on this left face,
The lipstick was twice priced, yes so, A one, five and two with two makes ten.
The chit chat after more chat of short people, talk people, spokespeople
and Notpoeople. Strike twelve, now boredom. His huffing flu resolved itself
"Yessum," he tried saying. For whatever reason. Was a boyfriend of hers.
Indecisive of the next blow. With his little socks and socks of red and green
Put on orderly. Hopes to avoid his thickening, unforgiving secret. Still mixed clues.
A puzzle, a puzzle piece in the centre of question. Arises the attitude remedy.
His only skill is comedy. A blaze morning sun rises now. Oh dear, not now.
Strolls about resembling exactly of kings. A King, he told himself to be like.
Waiting, waiting, in a hurry he's waiting to wait for the girl to come, presently.
In Proportions, he waits presently. So easy and a little hasty, here she comes -
Sugar on ice, not all but a slice delight, my precise precise. Having lunch,
Delicacy lemonade, in likeness, with a perfect meal with sauce on fries.
There's too much honey in his drink - Tender change, good meal they say.
*
They lost each other in April, A signal of hurt was played in a collection of rue.
She was left with a blister, mostly solemn, absent and good.
The terraces and cafes remain pretty, and even quiet.
Life at Seventeen