I've once imagined this scene:
yellow sunlight streaming through a glass window;
and from it hangs green, plaid curtains
and the tablecloth of the dining table is plaid too.
In my hands I hold a cup of coffee, steaming,
and beside me, a fresh croissant laid on a crisp, white napkin.
From my kitchen, I gaze out the window at the tranquil street.

There are no cars--it's a Sunday after all--
but there is a boy comfortably seated,
cross-legged on the grass, on the other side,
and in his lap, he balances a sketchbook on one leg
while his arm rests on the other.

I can't see what he is drawing, but I reason it must be beautiful
because he is focused on it so intently;
I can tell in the way he grips his pencil.

Over time, I think I will fall in love with this boy,
but I will be too afraid to walk onto the other side of the street
so he will draw alone every Sunday and won't know he has an admirer.