A girl is a gun.
It started with that accent
Butterfly inflections with no trajectory.
She picks the hair from her mouth
Fights the wind with her fingers.
There's a silence outdoors
Held at gunpoint by the mood
And she's messing with my dimples
Bouncing humour off my smile.
We wait for friends to sit first
To claim that space for two
So we can ramble obscure nothings
And stoke the fire anew.