A boy
His green eyes harsh and focused
Hair a light brown and cut short
It is messy and flat
From a hat that's held in his hand
A girl
Hair cascading to her shoulders
In a river of golden blonde
Eyes an ice cold blue
But have a soft look
They stand in a crowded room of people
Yet they only see each other
They are far
They are separate
They are strangers
But a connection is created
Their eyes meet for barely a second
And time stops
The rest of the world put on hold
For a simple glance
And there it lies
A black and blue bruise
Covering one of his blissful green eyes
It is swollen too
The boy takes the hat from his hands
Places it on his head
And pulls it down to hide the bulge of an eye
Nonetheless the girl saw it
No matter how long the look was for
She remembers
She's intrigued by it
She curious as to how he got it
What his story is
Why he is hidding it
Why he let her see
Even if it was only for a second
But while all this runs in her mindo
The boy has broken the intense gaze
He has moved on
Continued on his corse
Leaving the girl only to
Imagine

I look out the lonely window, misted in the mornings cold.
I see shadows, grey and formless, out there in the sleeping
world. Still sleeping, on this grey and quiet morn. I wonder
why I feel this way, why I hate the noisy, bustling day. Why
I prefer instead, to stand here, alone and cold, and draw
pictures in the condensation, gathered from my steaming
breath. My melancholy is my oldest friend. She sits there in
the corner, content to stare, wordlessly out the misted window,
and fidget with her hair. I wonder why I have this life, why I
am not instead, a tree or rock or distant star, burning coldly,
out in the great expanse. Or even a flower, violet with the
shade of twilight, here only for a brief while, a second to
The Infinite, and then gone, blown away like chaff upon an
Autumn wind. I wish. For I am like the quiet breeze that
stirs the grasses, and raises the heads of sleeping flowers, in
the cold of early dawn. I am like a shallow pool, clear for those
with eyes to see, still as a translucent mirror, set upon those
tiny waves. People glance my way, and then continue, on
with their vibrant lives, so full of light and color, determining
in a passing glance, the frailty of life I hold, no threat, no pain.
As easily extinguished as to blot a word of faded ink.
I sit here, my melancholy by my side, hand upon my shoulder.
I wonder if it is not time, to seek some newer fresher place,
like the violet in her time. I wonder if it is not best, to leave
this faded world behind, and just....go. To leave and seek a
better clime. For after all, what's a word of faded ink, too
grey to read, so light as to be barely seen, but a thing, not far
removed, from the clean expectancy of the white beneath.
Awaiting only a ready brush, and ink, near at hand.