Peter Pan Syndrome
When Peter told me to take his hand
And follow him to Never Neverland
I obeyed without question;
Putting my heart in his possession.
We painted each other in liquor kisses
And indulged ourselves in romantic blisses.
We take pleasure in our time together
As we flaunted our affections in the warm, summer weather.
His cigarette kisses pin me to the door.
Like fairy dust, they life my feet off the floor.
There is electricity in this humid air
As I stand hypnotized in his sapphire stare.
Yet I pause. There is a wrinkle in perfection.
Something is flawed in my partner selection.
At 26 Peter isn’t old, but he’s odd
For he cocoons himself in a youthful façade.
While his white and blue Mohawk show nice contrasting
A receding hairline will keep that from lasting.
He and the Lost Boys make a merry mob
But I’d much prefer he’d get a long-term job.
Like water trickles from a hand that is cupped,
Youth is leaving. But he won’t grow up.