[it looks like prompto is about to say something towards the end of the poem, but all that comes from him is a slightly-opened mouth, ready to breathe out words that never come.]

[yeah, he's got nothing on this fucking poem.]

This is just like in school. I'm not good at abstract stuff.

[maths and poems and the like. give him an actual hands-on project and analyzing purely the superficial, and he's pretty much set to succeed. anything else goes past him like it holds no weight.]

It has a nice rhythm to it! You obviously like the stuff a lot.

[leaning back on the chair, the umbrella falls back on the floor and prompto startles—having forgotten it, and decides to leave it where it is, instead, keeping arms crossed.]

[back to v now.] Must have taken you a while to learn it.