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?
perhaps performance feeds on purity
and movies don’t.