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He was 16 and he was trying to like cigarettes
with his legs kicked up across his dad’s patio furniture.
She was perfect, not perfect, but she was perfectly available,
and he'd always had a weakness for things that were perfectly available.
She was 16 and she was trying to be sexy
before she knew how dangerous it was to be sexy.
He eyed her with intention, then he smiled and it succeeded.
He was rough around the edges, she was bored, he was everything she needed.
So this is what they invented music for.
He picked up his guitar without the capacity for extended metaphor,
so he said she is the sun, then he just strummed.
She is the sun, she is a sunbeam.
She is the sun and I am a tree leaf.
He was 16 and he was trying to like cigarettes
and she was 16 and she was trying to like cigarettes.
So they killed some hours on weekday afternoons in Big Tree Park,
masked with perfume and breath mints, always home before the streets got dark.
It got a little weird when his hands would get a little bit too eager,
became too real when the stains formed on their index fingers.
When you're young lost love feels like it will undoubtedly kill you,
well it doesn't but it leaves you with the means to.
So this is heartbroken, so this is lovelorn.
He bought a pack to quit on, time heals every sore.
She was the sun but she isn't anymore.
She was the sun, she was a sunbeam.
She was the sun and I am a tree leaf.
He was 16, she was 16, and everything was cool
so they traded drags from cigarettes on their way home from high school.
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