made of sun itself:

red converse on black tarmac, running whipfast to god-knows-where

on a Saturday in mid-July.

blasting Lizzo on a crappy tapedeck

as the sunset bleeds itself crimson across the horizon.

they're pretty and they all know it.

they toss their hair like stallions when they laugh at a clever pun,

or at the folly of an attempt at wooing them; they

are far smarter than you'd guess, but vain.

who could blame them? 

these boys 

are danger and beauty,

until they wink out, bright and terrible and far too soon,

like the last breath of a dying star.