Poetry: The girls in pink

This is a poem about which I can say with conviction that I will never compose anything like this ever again. It gives two conclusions about this piece: 
1. Its very special
2. I haven't really enjoyed the process of it, and don't plan to go through it ever again
I got the idea at sharp 7:30 PM Thursday 25 September 2025, and I guess this piece is special because this is the first ever piece on my blog that came to my mind, made it to my diary page and was actually published on my blog within two hours! (Big achievement)
So background for this one is quite diverse: I was randomly reading through the lyrics of several English artists and it occurred to me that what I thought would be a great deal of work, thinking, and brainstorm  is actually not, in fact 'song writing' is poetry at its core. And that's when the idea came to me, If I can write poetry, I can write a song too. The idea was of a 'song' was rejected immediately as it did not seem creative to me but still I managed to write a piece close enough. 
Some ideas in this poem are actual excerpts from my childhood, all the things I used to do, I used to love, I used to value, but forgot about in the muddle of growing up, I've gave credit to some of them here. It's a 'coming of age' piece from my side as a girl. As the background suggests, this was really easy to write. one thing I love about this is the ending:

There on the brown branch
If you saw with binoculars 
There stood a treehouse
Built with leftover wood cuttings
From grandpa's garage
It once smelled of strawberry jam
And cream cheese jars
All that is left now are some broken branches
No one shouting out and waving
The girls in pink are gone

They walk down the street now
Sometimes holding books
Sometimes holding pets
But most of the time I see them
Holding heavy hearts
They don't spend the weekends on the porch
Or wait for the balloon man at the park
The girls in pink are gone

They walk down the street
Wearing grey pants and blue hoodies
She used to complain about 'No caffeine'
Now I see her with red eyes
Throwing coffee out of the window
Saying it is nothing but another sleepless drain
She used to complain about 'Early bedtime'
Yesterday she said 
'Could you please borrow my work so I can spend a night in my bed'
The girls in pink are gone

They don't like strawberry jam
All they swallow is oxygen with extra hydrogen
I wish they return
Complete the view from my window
A view I enjoyed for years
But how will I see the view again
For it was all because of my binoculars 
But a few years back
A girl in pink borrowed it
Maybe the girls in pink have already returned
 Awaiting to be discovered
But how will I discover them
For its now them who own my binoculars