Sebastian Lloyd

It begins with a certain wispy prince. 

Perhaps a captain of the one of the ball sports, or the first lad to heave around a doorstop novel.  

He starts being sheepish at show and tell. 

Mumbling to the floor about his weekend Nerf war.  

Stops playing, preferring to stand by the monkey bars, tapping his knee.

Then one day, he’ll turn to you.

“I said to ask your parents to buy Miss Pilgrim something for the last day, to all give her your Flat Stanley pictures on time, to help me.

If you’d all helped, diplomatically, we’d be building the stick insect cage together!”

He struggles through ‘diplomatically’, but we all know what he means. 

He could be placing the plastic trees, pouring the cups of pebbles,

Letting ‘Twiggy’ walk tentatively down his finger. 

He could be feigning a gawk at their finished work, catching a glance at the glossy ringlets of her hair up close. 

What if she saw something in him, worth capsizing her life for, and you were too shy. 

He’ll heave a sharp contraction, expel what’s borrowed. 

There’ll be a well in his eye.

Then huff and puff and cry, big tears, like handbags

Hanging off his ribs. Friction for the heart’s brakes,

Squeezing his sobs to a moan.

There’ll be tears on your face too, your hand on the playground’s polished wood.

Although a few stay while he waters.

Afterwards you disappear to your own corners, to play in worlds of your own.