At which point did it happen? There must have been a defining moment, an instant when I unwittingly crossed a line, and didn’t know that I could not return. I stand on the other side now, a ghost watching innocent revelry continue without me. That makes me sad, angry, and jealous.
What is the matter little boy? Troubled and restless.
What is the matter little girl? Angry and frustrated.
There is tension between you both. What is your problem? He doesn’t want to talk and ignores her. He leans on a barrier and stares into the distance. He knows he is being watched but pretends not to notice. You are ruining my night. He’s not in the mood. In years to come, he realises that his petulant behaviour was unreasonable, but by then he will have become the person he wanted to be.
“What do you like about me most?” he asked.
“It is the fact that you are naive and can be incredibly indiscreet with the people around you,” I replied.
“Is that all? Don’t you find any part of me remotely attractive?”
“I do,” I said, “but what’s the use of having exceptional legs if you don’t use them to your advantage?”
The concrete city, where unruly boys roam, and life moves dangerously fast. The golden boy’s halo slips and falls to the ground like a tin can dropped from the balcony above. It hits the pavement and breaks and the blissful boy becomes the common threat.
“Amidst the babble and the cackle,
A voice shouts loudest,
I am Romeo and you must come to me.
And I hear that voice,
I say, Verona, at last I am coming to thee.”
I wish I knew what you were thinking? Is it that you don’t like me, and that I’m a complete prick? Or do you like me? I can’t tell. Are you absorbed in something completely different? Like blueberries, or Coca Cola, or playing Fortnite, or watching Homicide: New York? Or maybe even thinking about a girl who you might want to get off with? Or a boy? But your face gives nothing away, it reveals nothing, nada, and because of that I get frustrated and angry, and when I provoke you, there is nothing you can say, and merely shrug your shoulders instead.
You sit patiently, like a dog awaits its master, and you want to tell me about something that you have done during the day. Like preparing a meal, cleaning the bathroom, painting a wall, or a new book that you think I will like.
He was like a boy playing on the seashore. I asked him what could he see? He said he hoped they were happy, working the beach, just out of reach, but free.
A silent boy, a handsome boy, one who never speaks, but stares, and absorbs his surroundings and the people around him.
He has a body with subtle yet erotic tattoos. He dances with his shirt off and you notice that his pecs are coming along nicely. Everything looks perfect until you look at his face and realise that he is ugly.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 