girl

ONE MOROCCAN BEACH.

Miryam walks along the beach
in her swimming attire, some red
and flowered design, Benedict
notes, walking just behind, having

 

left the two Moroccan guys behind
with the camel, with whom she'd
posed while he took camera shot.
Bet they don't do that everyday, she

 

says, swaying her delicious backside
side to side. No, guess not, least
not by the look on their faces,
Benedict says. She laughs, does

 

a Monroe kind of walk and wiggle.
We came down here last night, she
says, it was quite romantic what
with the moon, stars and warm air.

 

She stops and turns to look at him.
Was it about here? she asks. He
gazes about him, at the sand and
tufts of grass, the sky blue and the

 

odd white clouds, could be, hard
to say, it being dark and all. You
found your way around all right,
she says, smiling. Well, a guy gets

 

to know his way around after a while,
bit like a seaman gets to know the sea,
the rough times and the smooth,
the high tides and the low, when

 

its best to set out and when to stay
in port. She frowns. Is that what it's
like for you guys? Just like that? No,
he says, just being philosophical, in

 

fact, it was a good evening, a fine
fuck, he says softly. Is that all? she
asks. She stands there her hands
on hips, her head to one side. No,

 

of course not, it's just us guys hate
to get all soft about these things,
he says. She pouts. Soft? These
things? she says. Can't you just

 

say it was romantic? She says, is
it hard to say that? A fine fuck? 
Is that easier to say? It's just one
syllable instead of three, he says.

 

She turns and walks on through
the sand. He follows, taking in
her figure, her side to side ass,
the tight red hair. OK, he says, it

 

was a romantic night, I loved the
whole set up, the stars, the moon,
you and me, the sand, the soft tufts
of grass, the sex, the kisses, the holds.

 

She stops and turns and gazes at him.
It has to mean something, she says,
otherwise we waste our lives in such
pointlessness. He nods, zooms in on

 

her small tits, her eyes, her whole features.
Sure we do, he says, you're right, it
was one fine romantic never to be
forgotten night. She smiles and walks

 

to him and kisses him and holds him.
He holds her, feels her, senses her lips
on his, and out of the corner of his eye,
he sees the two Moroccan guys and

 

camel walk away up the beach, they'll
never know this, he thinks, feeling smug,
far beyond their lives or random reach.

 

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INGRID'S PICNIC

To Ingrid it was a picnic, but to Benedict it was merely a bag of goodies and bottles of pop. He said to meet him outside the green grocer shop in Meadow Row, just a little inward in case Ingrid's father came that way on his way to work and became suspicious. Benedict stands by the green grocer's shop, looking over the bomb site, the areas of green where weeds grow up through the bombed ruins. He holds the brown paper carrier bag in one hand, his other hand in the pocket of his black jeans, fingering his two favourite marbles. He knows she wants to come, she was quite excited by his idea of a lunch in Bedlam Park. His mother has made the sandwiches: cheese, spam, fish paste. Two packets of potato crisps, and two bottles of pop drinks. He'd bought two Mars bars at the newsagents earlier that morning out of his own pocket money. He walks up to the edge of Meadow Row and peers down towards the slope leading to the flats. No sight of her. Maybe her old man has kept her in saying she's been too naughty to go out. Or maybe she's too frightened to ask or say and is waiting for her father to go, before venturing out. He sniffs the air. Fresh and warm. He walks a few steps down by the public house and back again. The smell of beer is still clinging in the air. One door is open, a lone drinker sits on a bar stool, sipping a beer. Benedict looks up the street towards the New Kent Road. As he looks back down the street again, he sees her coming, nervously looking over her shoulder, her pace quick, her legs walking, but almost running. At least she's come, he muses, holding the bag in his other hand. She arrives at his side out of breath and anxious. Sorry I'm late, she says, he has only just gone out. They've been rowing all morning. I kept to my room in case he found fault with me and kept me in or lashed out at me, she says, looking over her shoulder again. Well at least you're here, Benedict says. I've got the grub, he shows her the bag, and drinks of pop. She looks at the bag and looks in. Here you take it, he says, and hands her the bag. They walk across the bomb site at a slow pace, she talking about her parents rowing, about hiding in her bedroom, listening at the door. Benedict listens, he knows her father and mother, her father dislikes him, thinks him a spoilt brat in need of a good hiding. Benedict thinks like wise of her father, only he thinks her father's a bullying pig in need of good punching(although ten years old he's too young yet to oblige). She talks of her mother crying during the night, the sound of slaps, raised voices. Benedict takes in her short sleeve, green dress, food stained, her grey once white ankle socks, battered shoes, and the green speckled cardigan with only two buttons. They walk on and down the subway and out the other end along St George's Road. She talks on about missing her tea the evening before, her father claiming she had not done sufficient chores to deserve it, even though her mother had said she had, he ignored her and sent Ingrid to her room. She was hungry all night. Her stomach rumbled, she hardly slept. Did you eat breakfast? Benedict asks. Yes, I got some this morning before he was up, she says. They walk on by the shops and houses, he telling her about the six shooter his old man had picked up for him from a junk shop. Silver looking, the bullets come out and go in, he says, but I didn't bring it, I'll show you another day. They go by their school on the right, by the church, and on and into the park. The war museum is on their right, the football grounds on their left. They walk on until they find an area of grass that is clear and clean of paper or dog mess or tins and settle down. He takes off his jacket, with his small toy gun in the inside pocket, just in case of bad guys ambushing them, and lays it on the grass. She removes her cardigan and puts it by her legs. Fading bruises show on her upper arm, but he says nothing, takes note and looks away. She unpacks the carrier bag of sandwiches and bottles of pop and packets of crisps. Her eyes widen. Did you make the sandwiches? She asks. No, my mum did them this morning, he answers. She's good your mum, she says. Yes, she is, he says. He says nothing about her mother. He knows her mother has little say in how her life is run or how her daughter is treated. Ingrid hesitates. Shall I take one? She says. Of course, he says, that's the point of bringing them. Do we say grace? She asks. Can if you like, he says. She says a grace over the sandwiches and crisps and bottles of pop, her eyes closed, her hands together at the palms. He stares at her hands, the thin fingers, the chewed nails. He also noted that she winced as she sat down on the grass,  just a short while ago, her father's handiwork, no doubt, he thinks, seeing how she sits to one side. Amen, she says and he adds an Amen afterwards. He opens up the bags of sandwiches and offers her a choice. She stares at the bags, hesitates, then picks out a white cheese sandwich and bites at it ravishingly. He takes out a brown spam sandwich and nibbles. They sit in silence for a while eating. He offers her a bottle of pop, which she takes and unscrews the cap and sips. He unscrews his bottle and takes big gulp. She watches him, looks at his combed back hair, the wave, the hazel eyes. Does your mum know you're with me? He asks. Yes, she says, asked her last night while he wasn't around. What did she say? He asks. She said I could, but to wait until he'd gone off to work and not to mention it to him. Guess he'd not like that, Benedict says, you out with me? No, she says, looking away, staring at pigeons nearby, he doesn't like you, he thinks you're a bad influence on me. She is silent. He studies her profile, her eyes, her shape of nose, her hair badly brushed. The bruises still visible on the arm. I think your father's a pig arse, Benedict says out of the corner of his mouth while eating. She looks at him, her eyes bright and wide, her mouth open, words waiting to come, but don't. She bites at her sandwich. He takes a slug of his pop drink and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He burps. Last time he saw me with you, she begins, but then says nothing. What? Benedict asks. What did he say? She wipes her hands on her dress. She looks across at the football grounds. He said I wasn't to see you anymore, she says. But you have, Benedict says. She nods. Yes, but he mustn't know, she says. I won't tell him, Benedict says, if you don't. Last time he saw me with you, she says quietly, he punished me.  Why did you come? Benedict asks. I wanted to, she says. Even if it costs you? He asks. She sighs and nods. Even if, she mutters, gazing at him, looking at him with her sad eyes, her fingers holding each other. He takes another sandwich and bites into it. She looks at her fingers, feels the sensation of pain in her thighs, tries to sit in another position, shifts on the grass. She takes a sandwich from a bag and nibbles anxiously, her fingers holding, her body shifting to ease the pain, her eyes looking, staring, feeding on him, feeling safe, feeling lost and found. Benedict takes another slug at his bottle of pop, gulps down, wipes his mouth. Don't be anxious, he says, tapping his small toy gun in his jacket pocket, you're safe with me. She smiles, moves nearer, sips her drink, touches his leg, feels safer. Despite the pain, she thinks, she'd see him again and again.

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LIKE DOOMED BLACK BIRDS.

I wanted to meet you
outside the National
Gallery, Julie says, but
the doctors weren't keen,

 

said I fucked up my drug
medication, and not let
me out for days. She
was a drug dependent,

 

on the cure, or so she said.
And waiting you went
to Dobells's record shop,
listened to few jazz LPs,

 

had a beer, sat and smoked,
thought about sex, the having
and not so. Then she shows,
her dark hair neat, pony-tailed,

 

her tight figure in the clothes
she wears, tits almost touchable.
Let's skip the old stuff, she says,
let's keep to the modern shit,

 

save time, energy, then after
a drink and chat. So you go
in the Gallery, take in all those
moderns, the stuff she likes,

 

the portraits, the brush skills
involved, who painted whom,
buy a few postcards, look
at books. Then off for a coffee

 

and chat, you go to some place
in Leicester Square, sit at a table,
take out the cigarettes, wait
for the order, take in her features

 

as she speaks, her eyes, her lips,
the way her hair is brushed
and kept, her tight top, those
pressing out of tits. I liked

 

the Picasso, she says, his stuff
really gets to me, makes other
works boring as last year's fucks.
You notice how she holds her

 

cigarette, the fingers not yet
browny yellow, hold it just so,
not tight or loose, but gently,
like it was some baby kid instead

 

of tobacco filled paper deadly drug.
The coffees come, neat small cups,
tiny handles, froth and such. I feel
the need, she says,all the time that

 

need to hit the veins or tongue. You
hear her words, out there, fragile things,
taking flight, like doomed black birds.

 

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NOT ASK AGAIN.

Lydia's mother
sliced the bread thinly
and buttered sparingly
and handed Lydia

 

two limp slices
and said
get that inside you

 

can't have you going
everywhere
with your stomach rumbling
people'd think

 

you've not been fed
Lydia took the two slices
and a mug of stewed tea

 

but she hadn't been fed
that was why
she went and got
the rolls and bread

 

but she said nothing
just nodded her head
and followed her mother

 

into the living room
and sat at the table
her big sister
had gone to bed

 

her father was sleeping
off the beer
Lydia nibbled like a mouse

 

a thin long haired girl
of a mouse
can I go up West?
she asked

 

up West?
her mother repeated
as if her daughter

 

had sworn at her
up West?
she said again
turning the words around

 

in her head
to see how they fitted in best  
can I?

 

her daughter
asked again anxiously
you can in the sense
that it's possible

 

but if you mean may
as a permissibility
then no

 

her mother said
what?
Lydia said
uncertain where

 

she was
in her request
your gran always said

 

that the difference
between can and may
is one of possibility
over permissibility

 

said Lydia's mother
may I go?
Lydia asked softly

 

no you may not
her mother said
why not?
her daughter asked

 

because I said so
her mother replied
why do want to go there?

 

her mother asked
Benedict said
he was going there
and that he'd take me

 

Lydia replied
oh him
her mother said

 

she sat and took a bite
from her sandwich
picturing the boy
from upstairs

 

in the flats
with his hazel eyes
and big smile

 

and self assurance
about him
why does he want to go
up West?

 

she asked
he likes adventures
Lydia said

 

adventures?
her mother said
repeating the word
as if

 

it were unknown to her
who does he think he is
Biggles or someone

 

like that?
Lydia sat nibbling
frowning
holding the bread

 

in her thin hands
he's never mentioned Biggles
Lydia said

 

don't talk
with your mouth full
her mother scolded
Lydia swallowed

 

the bread
he's not said nothing
about no Biggles

 

Lydia said
well you can't go
her mother said firmly
looking at her daughter's

 

thin frame
and lank long hair
do you mean I mayn't?

 

Lydia uttered gently
I said what I mean
her mother said
and don't get mouthy

 

like your big sister
or you'll feel
my hand

 

across your backside
Lydia nibbled
and looked away
a train steamed crossed

 

the railway bridge
leaving grey white smoke
behind it

 

lingering there
unsettling the air
her mother muttered words
but Lydia didn't listen

 

she watched clouds
cross the sky darkly
carrying a storm

 

or rain
she liked her backside
as it was
she didn't want

 

no pain
she'd not ask
again.

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INNOCENT GIRL STARE.

You're not eating properly
Eliane's mother said
you've hardly eaten a thing
Elaine who'd been thinking

 

of the boy John
looked up
through her glasses

 

at her mother
at the dining table
got to eat
her father interjected

 

got to eat
my young Plump Hen
her sister said nothing

 

but grinned
I do eat
Elaine said
but she didn't feel

 

like eating
it seemed the least
important thing

 

at that moment
her stomach felt
as if it had fallen
into a slumber

 

not enough
her mother said
maybe she's fallen in love

 

her father bantered
Elaine went red
and lowered her head
and began to nibble

 

at the food on her plate
nonsense
her mother said

 

it's some silly
slimming diet
I bet
not very successful

 

if it is
her younger sister said smiling
John had touched her arm

 

in passing at school
not by accident
but by design
he meant to touch

 

to bring her briefly
into his world
his circumference

 

she still touched
now and then
the area on her arm
he touched (at school)

 

with her fingers
I won't have you dieting
over some silly fad

 

her mother went on
but Elaine ceased listening
the words were buzzing flies
she wanted to

 

flick them away
with a hand
John had talked to her

 

not at her
or about her
(as others did)
or down to her

 

but with her
in a duel thing
he and she

 

kind of exchange
she ate slowly
the food almost
making her gag

 

getting stuck
in the throat
she held onto

 

the image of him
in her mind tried
to focus
on his outline

 

on his features
his words
taking each one

 

she could remember
and turning it over
in her mind
as if it were

 

a rare gem
girls your age
what are you now?

 

14 yes 14years old
ought not to diet
her mother said
breaking into Elaine's head

 

if I see you not eating again
I'm taking to the doctors
Elaine looked up

 

and put on
her good daughter face
that I'll do
whatever you want features

 

and John had placed
a hand by her head
at the school fence

 

his arm brushing softly
against her hair
and he never said anything
unkind about

 

her dark hair
or the metal grips
her mother made her wear

 

and her mother rattled on
but Elaine just returned
her innocent girl
stare.

 

 

 

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HE AND SHE AND ANOTHER DATE.

Benedict stands and looks over the balcony of the flat. The baker is delivering bread from his horse drawn cart, his hat tilted to the back of his head, his money bag over his shoulder. Benedict's father owes the baker £50, or so he heard the other day, when his old man moaned about the baker wanting some back of what he was owed. Over the way kids are at play, skipping or with hula hoops or wooden box homemade go-carts. He looks down into the Square, the man with the boxer dog is taking it for a stroll; across on the opposite balcony, a man smokes, dressed just in his vest, bald head, smoke rising. Benedict looks down at Lydia's flat. Her father swayed home drunk last night, singing some Scottish songs at the top of his voice, his arms outspread above his head. Benedict had seen him, heard him, Lydia's mother at the door of the flat, arms folded, unimpressed, hairnet, cigarette between lips. The door is shut now, the loud voices and shouts silenced. Lydia's big sister crept home at some God knows what hour in the morning, tarted up, beehive hairdo, skirt just covering her backside, black stockings, hair dyed blonde. Lydia's brother, Hemmy, crosses the Square, sneaky and oily in a stroll. Benedict had punched him once for tossing fireworks at him and his sister, ran after him until he caught him, and thump thump and down he went. Lydia will be out later, he supposes. Thin girl, light brown long hair, lanky, her thin features and arms and legs. They'd been to the local railway station to watch the steam trains, went to Waterloo railway station, too. Sitting there on a seat, smelling the steam and acrid smoke, and that steam train smell. The powerful sounds, the feel of power, the smell of power. They sat occupied by the big black train waiting to depart, steam oozing, the loud whistle, the passengers looking from windows. And Lydia had said, I'd like to go to Scotland; like it is shown on the big coloured posters or to the seaside with yellow sands and blue sea; and he had said, yes we will, we'll go together, you and I, a bag of sandwiches, bottles of pop. She liked that. Moved closer to him, her arm against his. The train pulled out, steam hissing, the smell getting stronger, his lungs enlarging with it, she stood up, hands in prayer mode, her eyes focused. They waved to the train and unknown passengers. Benedict's mother has gone shopping with his sister and younger brother. His old man is at work, making things of metal in some factory by the Thames; he'd been there once, one Saturday morning, his old man showing him around, doing things, overtime. The door of Lydia's flat opens and Lydia appears. She looks around the Square. She is clothed in a red and black checked dress, greyish ankle socks, black plimsolls. Her hair is unbrushed, hangs in strands. She looks up and he waves and she waves back. She smiles. He smiles back. She stands there in the open air. She points to her mouth with a finger. He wonders what she means. He opens up his hands in a gesture of: What do you mean? Hemmy punched my mouth, she says. She rubs her lip. Come up, Benedict says. She looks back at her door, then pulls it shut and walks across the Square and up the stairs. He waits and listens. The baker unloads more bread, the horse stands idle with a nosebag, feeding. She runs onto the balcony and stands beside him, out of breath. He sees a seep of red on her lower lip, her teeth have blood on them. He takes out his handkerchief and wipes her lip gently, she shivers, eyes watery, her tongue pushed into the opposite side of her cheek. Why did he punch you? Benedict asks. She moves her lips to answer. Because I'm ugly he said, she answered, blood seeping still, his handkerchief getting redder. I'll smack his mouth, Benedict says, he'll have to put his toothbrush up his arse to clean his teeth, he adds, making her giggle, then cringe, then shiver. She looks into his eyes. He sees his reflection there. They seem green, the eyes, the black center. She takes hold of his arm of the hand wiping her lip, grips it. Heard your dad singing last night, he says. She looks downwards. He sings well, Benedict adds, just wrong time and place. They rowed for hours afterwards, she says.Then my sister came home in the early hours and that meant another row, Dad saying he'd tan her backside, calling her a whore, Mum butting in defending her and shouting at her. Sounds exciting, Benedict says. Frightening, she says, pulling away from his handkerchief, hand and fingers. I share a bedroom with her. She stank of booze. She was in a foul mood, throwing her clothes about the room, swearing, standing there in the nude, her boobies like small babies. He laughs at that. She frowns. Not funny, she says, she scared me. Sorry, he says, just the way you came out with it. Her lip still seeps blood. She licks it with her tongue. He wipes it with his handkerchief again. She screws up her eyes. Then she snored all night, Lydia says. Did your dad tan her backside? he asks, standing back, seeing if the blood has stopped. No, he just says that, makes him feel he's still in control of things, but he isn't anymore, Mum is, Mum is the power now, Lydia says. Has he ever hit you? Benedict asks. No, he hasn't, Mum has and does. He's a big noisy, cuddly bear. All mouth, Mum says. Well, with us he is. He knocked two Paddies out the other month at the Duke of Wellington, she says, unimpressed, but smiling, despite her lip. I can't go up West with you, Lydia says. Why not? Benedict asks. He notices the bleeding has ceased. Mum gave me some lecture about may and can and possibility and permissibility or something or other, but I can't go, she say, folding her arms, standing stiff. He pulls a face. I'll have a word with her, Benedict says, explain the purpose of our adventure. No, no, Lydia says. She says she'll tan my backside if I keep on about it. No pain, no gain, he says. Think of it: the West End of London. She breathes in heavily, looks at him, at his combed back quiff, the hazel eyes, the smiling lips. She can only say no, he says. No, best not, not after last night's episodes. Another time, when she's in a better mood, Lydia adds. Benedict sighs. He likes her thin hands, the way they have gripped his own in sign of desperation, the thin fingers, the pinkie nails. OK, he says, another time. What about Bedlam Park? We can go swimming? She hesitates, looks over the balcony, her hair needing a good brush, her eyes full of wonder and fear and anxiety. I could ask, she says. Just a question. She needn't pay for the locker, Benedict says, I've money for that. Lydia looks at him, her brain in gear, her lips open, words there. I'll see what she says, Lydia says, and off she goes down the stairs, two at a time; he can hear her feet on concrete steps. He watches her go to the door of her flat and disappear inside. Negotiations, words exchanged, maybe. He looks at the door. The man with the boxer dog returns to the Square with a newspaper under an arm, the dog pulling, the man's arm out stretched. The door to Lydia's flat opens and she comes out and gives him the thumps up sign. She smiles and goes back inside. No pain, some gain, no slapped backside. He smiles. Up West will have to wait. He and she,another time, another date.

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A LUCKY WOMAN'S DAUGHTER.

Helen and you
walked home from school
the long way
you wanted to show her


the man
in the pie and mash shop
cutting up eels
for jellied eels


or for the pies
how he would stand there
with his knife
and take up an eel


and holding it
firmly on a board
would cut off its head
and then proceed


to slice it up
into small pieces
and into a bucket
on the floor


and when you showed her
standing outside the shop
peering through
the window


she said
O my God
and put a hand
to her mouth


and spoke
through her hand
and added
poor eels


to end up
in someone's stomach
and the way
he cuts them up


and the pieces
still moving afterwards  
and she moved away
and walked up the road


still holding a hand
over her mouth
you don't fancy
pie and mash then?


you said
not with eels in it no
she replied
through her fingers


you smiled
not funny
she said
poor little eel creatures


yes I guess it is
a bit brutal
you said
but fascinating


to watch
I don't think so
she said
taking her hand


from her mouth
you both went under
the subway of the junction
she slightly


in front of you
her two plaits of hair
bouncing
as she walked


her green raincoat
tied tight about her
you whistled
so that it echoed


along the subway
bouncing off the walls
all along
the artificial lights


giving off
a surreal sensation
how can people eat eels?
she asked


just the sight
puts me off
don't know
guess they don't think


of it being eels as such
just as something to eat  
you said
you both came out


of the subway
on the other side
and walked along
the New Kent Road


by the cinema
she looking
at the billboards
through her thick lens glasses


are you sure your mum
doesn't mind
having me for tea?
she said


well we're not actually
having you for tea
we usually have
beans on toast


or jam sandwiches
she slapped your hand
you know what I mean
she said smiling


no Mum don't mind
you said
she invited you after all
I pleaded against it


but she wouldn't listen
you said smiling
Helen's face frowned
and she stood still


really?
she said
no I'm joking
you said


and she nodded her head
uncertainly
looking at you
through her glasses


I'm just kidding
you said
you touched her hand
she smiled


and you both walked on
and across the bomb site
the uneven ground
the puddles of rainwater


you your mother's son
and Helen
a lucky woman's
daughter.

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Make Affray (& Love Less)

She threw herself in focus;

adamant while so detached.

She knew me to be hopeless;

indulged in me in spite of that.

Culls what little interest

I could stand to spawn and rear,

and feigns herself indignant

when I try to catch her ear.

I know my poorer habits -

these tendencies to flee -

but in this sorry instance,

I think that might be best for me.

For what can be accomplished,

chasing she who turns to run.

I may be who's lonely, here --

I refuse to be the only one.

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Breaking Down

She's a minute away from breaking down

A second away from exploding

She knows in her soul she loves him

And that he's the one she should be holding

 

She longs to feel his soft touch

And yearns to taste his fruitful kiss

The loving gaze in his eyes

She truly does miss

 

Her soul feels so torn

And her heart feels ripped to the core

As she gasps for her breath

She begins to feel even more sore than before

 

She feels her life is no longer the same

As she screams into the night

She wants so bad to be with him

But he feels it just isn't right

 

Her world is crumbling down around her

As she looks up to the sky

Asking herself questions and wondering why

Why he doesn't love her?

Or understand just how she feels?

She's tried so hard to show him

But he doesn't seem to know it's real

 

She doesn't know what to do

She's done all she could

Hopefully one day her feelings

For him will be fully understood

 

Until then she'll remain in pain

Maybe one day he'll open his eyes

And understand he could have had something to gain

But for now she knows in her heart so true

That as long as their apart she'll always be blue

 

She knows the pain will never go away

Not until that one glorious day

When he comes to her to tell her my love

I am here

And here is where I will always stay

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This poem was written by me.

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