"This kind of astonishment is a function of youth. I got over it later." --
Margaret Atwood
He was a pretty boy. You know the kind,
walking through life with an ignorant grace;
an angel-like innocent. Unrefined.
He'd lie splayed on my bed as if designed
by an architect; he took up free space.
He was a pretty boy; you know the kind.
He'd write love letters and leave them unsigned
on my desk. Who'd work so hard to save face?
(An angel-like innocent; unrefined).
We'd fuck on the floor, legs tangled, entwined
like vines. Panting like we'd just run a race.
He was a pretty boy. You know the kind.
The day that he vanished I was resigned.
Said to myself, "I'm not going to chase
an angel-like innocent." (Unrefined).
The face in the mirror's creased and it's lined.
But I haven't changed the locks. Just in case.
He was a pretty boy. You know the kind,
an angel-like innocent, unrefined.