The Boy

Writing

This boy was never on time for anything in his life.

He was always off in the clouds, or staring at his dream.

His dream was a girl; young, tender cheeks, soft lush lips, flowing black hair, her eyes were quiet shades of green. Quiet like tip-toes in the breaking of night.  On his way home from school he would walk by her balcony and play little images in his mind of him and her dancing in the rain and thunder as if he was in a movie scene with her. As he dreamt he would skip along to his home off into the horizon. He never saw the laughter from the boys and girls looking and pointing every day as he danced away from her balcony. He was always late; he was the last to know that 3 months ago the love he had been dreaming of had moved away. Once he knew he still dreamt of her and kept skipping along thinking of ways to impress her, and playing little clips in his head of how they would be together and marry one day.

His only problem was he never looked her in the eye he always looked away and into his shoes, staring at his reflection as if it had the answers to his loneliness  

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