He was such a hopeless romantic
that she called him a hopeful one.
He would never say the words
‘I lov-‘
And She’d cry or slap him
He’d ask
‘Do You want me to say and
not mean it or just Love You?’
It’s difficult to believe
that was ten years ago
And We were only
ten years old.
Now We sit at
twenty, and know
less than We
did back then
With even deeper romantic
tendencies
We keep reservations
At The Abyss
So We can vacate
our own heads and
find solitude in
simple sonnets and
symphonic solaces.
In the days when scars and bruises were mistakes
Grazed knees & elbows and the
Red red ranger
Ten years since,
and all of this
makes less
sense.
Now it’s red wine, red vines, red lines, red lace, red laces, red Rizla, mad-sad red-heads, with great bloody minds, red cheeks and red eyes.
…And I found
that answer,
the colour’s called
carmine.
…And my thesis
is on Love,
50,000 words
I would have
never said to You.
…Because We
were too closely tied
and We probably tied our shoes
a little too tight
Ten years
until We’re
thirty
We probably
would’ve changed
Yet remained,
quintessentially the same.
Maybe We wont change
Another decade
and the things
We are best at,
We will still be
moderately mediocre.