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playground love

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it was summer and louis had glitter on his eyelids. the mayflies flew from the culverts, laying on the sidewalks and their silhouettes warned their presence inside lamps above the tomlinson's dinner table. it was scary how they were everywhere louis looked at. they were almost ubiquitous. it was summer and harry carried a knife inside his denim jacket's pocket.

sleepy eyes. greasy hair. scratches on his wrists, dirt under the nails. louis could smell the smoke from harry's old clothes even when he stood steps away from him. a great gatsby copy under the tall boy's long tattoed arm. furrowed eyebrows. cherry lollipop hanging from his plump pink lips. harry had louis at his first 'hi'.

it was fall and the yellow leaves falling from the elm trees adorned louis' feathery hair. with his small feet wallowing inside the neighbor's dirty pool. harry pointed his knife to the ethereal blue-eyed boy. he was prettier than the wavering reflections on the blue-ish water. it was fall and the blade pressed to louis' right cheek hurt like cupid's arrows.

harry's bony hands were precise to pull a .45 trigger but could also effectively write poems about the swinging tree leaves and the way rain droplets hit the foggy windows.

narrowed eyes, stone heart; that's what everyone in the city used to say about harry. little did they know the curly-haired boy was as sweet as sugar.

it was winter and louis had strawberry gloss on his chapped lips. he felt weird with harry's nineteen years old tongue inside his seventeen years old mouth, but he tasted like peach liquor and blue eyes rolled behind closed eyelids - it was the best feeling in the world. it was winter and louis set himself on fire to keep harry warm.

at home, louis' dad got addicted to herbs tea and sleeping pills and they only had monosyllabic conversations. his mom opened louis' head to take a look inside it and was shocked when she found harry's name violently scrabbled across every wall of his brain.

it was spring and the golden sunflowers were growing inside louis' lungs. harry called the blue-eyed ethereal boy, his voice sounded hopeless saying he got caught and was running towards louis' house. harry stopped at the tomlinson's front garden and louis looked down from his balcony. the green-eyed boy looked like a sinful romeo. it was spring and harry lifted his pistol and those cops targeted their pointy bullets in his guts. his gorgeous guts.

harry died like every teacher and neighbor said he would: with his pockets stuffed with stolen things and chased by police cars.

louis already had fantasized about his first love but never about his first lost. it was too late when he realized harry was ubiquitous in louis' thoughts just like the mayflies on summer. handsome like the wavering reflections on the bluish water and sweet like coffee with three spoons of sugar.

oh victim of environment, underprivileged, rotten, no-count hood...

juvenile delinquent, you're no good.