The Bench

someone sat on the bench,
reading a book.
someone sat on the bench,
listening to music.


the bench was warm.
birds were chirping, trees were swishing, and there was a song.
someone then talked to someone.
Someone's smile, was perfect.
Sheakespeare wrote the Sonnet 18, potraying flawless beauty.
This smile, was incompatible to that.


another came.
someone got up and walked with another.
the song, rather oddly, stopped.
it didnt continue..


someone sat on the bench.
listening to music.
the bench, was cold.

emo much? =)