and movies don’t

it could have been a one-shot,

a picture perfect take:

 

wide striped pants and plain white shirt

running towards his scented neck,

sunlight blushing in the face

of how blue-eyed they are

 

tipsy, even, turning tables

breathing words or gasping for,

water color painted futures

is that why they shed no tears?

 

red wine flooding fairy lights

hand on neck and hands in curls,

jumping up, it’s time to leave

the tension in the dark

 

flying through the streets at night,

someone’s bedroom to be clear,

they choose bridges over boundaries,

that look like railway tracks indeed,

 

turning onto Ossian Road,

confusing promises and cheeky jokes,

she laughs and won’t believe,

what difference would it make?

 

Still, there is a chance:

that their performance

feeds on purity —

and movies don’t.

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