Pastel boy, I am sorry I stepped on your shoes the other day.
You still looked into my eyes and smiled when I apologized. The city was so grey this morning and I still don't know if it was the fog or if the end of the world had really come. It's December, the soft winter sun is warm enough to to touch but not real enough to feel, but you are real, you are real and your blue sweater with the snowflake pattern is real, as real as my fingers longing to touch your hair.
Pastel boy, I am running out of people to write poetry about.
