Girls with oxford shoes; girls with tattoos on 
their arms, like maps - the x marks the spot where treasure lies.
Boys with red lips; Boys with large hands and square jaws and lovely
treacherous eyes.
Crouching down behind bookshelves in a store, having a panic attack
and clutching at the spine of Great Expectations.
The irony is never lost on anyone, unfortunately.
Pages bruised and torn and sweaty fingertips on colourful covers, blinding with overwrought letters, cheerful comments - a classic; a masterpiece; a treasure for generations to come; forever the best. 

Girls that know better; Boys that know too much.
Poetry circles filled with cigarette smoke, fumbling touches against rock walls, backs arching like bows like
arrows flying to jab at skin and paint with blood and moaning
against the grass, against the stone, with bruises on pale hips and bite marks on shoulders.
Girls with toothy grins; Boys with well-pressed trousers.
And one more panic attack only witnessed by dead men, who knew nothing of the pain of carpet burns on bare knees.