They say that girls mature faster than boys.
That might be true, at least for me and you.
You were class head while I still had my toys,
I liked you then, despite your tough and cool.
Do you recall that one crushed paper ball
You warned me not to kick around the class?
My dear I was your crumpled paper ball
You chose to pick and straighten, then you asked:
“Will you be my stead?” confused I wore
Your novel sheepish gaze, waiting.
You took my stillness for another hour
Then left. I realize now, I left you hanging.
If I had known to stead meant together,
Then we might just— well, you might still be here.

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