Because he played the Dame

Thirteen
that age where crushes form
from throwing romantic projections
on to random strangers.

My friend has a fancy
for the cool twenty year old
in the Michael Jackson hat.
He swaggers around the am-dram society – I find him too cool to take
seriously.

Instead my eye is on the twenty
something who plays the Dame.
I figure that to be male,
to be his young age, and be the Dame,
he must be caring to have
the giggles on him,
to want to raise a laugh in
frumpy frock and rouged cheeks,
yes, he must be sweet.

His brother is a six former,
I pass him once a week at school,
always enquiring about my Dame.
One day I pluck up the courage to
ask the brother to ask him out for me.
He does and I’m told he thinks
I’m lovely, but we’ll have to wait
until I’m sixteen.

In the intervening years
he calls on my guardian,
to establish his pure intentions,
while I lose my virginity
and try to hide my indiscretions.

Finally, at eighteen we meet again,
I’m soon to leave for university,
he is as sweet as ever I
imagined him to be,
but too late, I’m far too
strong-willed, I’d eat him alive,
and leave him with only inconstancy.

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