Outside the café by the cracker factory you were practicing a magic trick.
And my thoughts got rude as you talked and chewed on the last of your pick and mix
You said “you’re mistaken if you’re thinking that I haven’t been called ‘cold’ before” as you bit into your strawberry lace.
Then offered me your attention in the form of a gobstopper
It’s all you had left and it was going to waste

Your pastimes consisted of the strange, the twisted and deranged
And I loved that little game you had called ‘Crying Lightning’
And how you liked to aggravate the ice cream man on rainy afternoons

The next time that I caught my own reflection it was on its way to meet you,
thinking of excuses to postpone.
You never looked like yourself from the side but your profile could not hide
the fact you knew I was approaching your throne.
With folded arms you occupied the bench like toothache, stood and puffed your chest out like you’d never lost a war.
Although I tried so not to suffer the indignity of a reaction there was no cracks to grasp or gaps to claw

And your pastimes consisted of the strange, the twisted and deranged
And I hate that little game you had called ‘Crying Lightning’
And how you liked to aggravate the ice cream man on rainy afternoons.
Uninviting, but not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are.