Outside the cafe 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. Said: "you're mistaken. If you're thinking that. I haven't been called "cold" before". As you bit into your strawberry lace. And then a flip of 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. And 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. And though 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. And twisted and deranged. And I hate that little game you had called. "Crying lightning". And how you liked to aggravate. The icky man on rainy afternoons. Uninviting. But not half as impossible as everyone assumes. You are. Crying lightning. Your pastimes consisted of the strange. Twisted and deranged. And I hate that little game you had called. "Crying lightning". Crying lightning. Crying lightning. Crying lightning. Your pastimes consisted of the strange. And twisted and derange. And I hate that little game you had called. Crying