Pending reply

The girl pretended the act of writing.
When, really, her whole, holy, precious, devoted mind was focused on another objective.
Her resting hand; and, really not that resting, slightly tapped the left corner of her desk.
She, herself, right there, awaited at ease, (a meadowlark).
Within the course of ten minutes or so, the boy got up,
walked by her desk,
and they both shared looks.
Briefly, yet it was enough for her.
Her cheeks immediatly turned a red hue.

--

The lady poured the hot, flowing tea.
From a newly-bought teasmaid, into an old, cracked, baby-blue teacup with some flowery pattern.
This was the lady's favorite cup.
As old and fragile as it was;
Still, she simply felt the need of using it today.

Earlier that day, she went out of her way to search through her old cabinets to find an old dress she really, truly loved.
She tried it on. It was pink, both the upper and lower piece.
To the lady's delight, the dress fitted her like a glove.
And the dress matched perfectly with some shoes she recently bought.
They were pink too. As well as her lipstick. As well as her eye-shade.

She, with the sweetest smile on her face continued setting up the table.
It was sunny outside. The puffy white clouds smiled relentlessly, with the warmthest blue sky one could ever see. The sun was shining as well. It was too good to be true.
Everything was perfect. At least in the woman's head.

--

I dreamed about you yesterday, too.
I ponder
with this question : "why?"

I've done my level best
to keep you outside.
door-locked.

Shall I stop diving into this deep, silky, silver-coated waters?
And, for a change, get to merge into something
a bit
more
hard-core?
Layer by layer,
until you, as a ghost-like being,

(because, as I'm aware of, that's what you are?
Or, better yet, what you portray?
Am I erroneusly chanting nonsense?)

simply vanish.
Into whiteness.
I long for the day.

--

The boy woke up with the least of the willings.

It was Sunday.
He looked through the window of his room and catched a fair glimpse of the faintly, gloomy sun.
He took a hot, quick shower and quickly dressed.

Normally, the boy wears black clothes of carded wool, which have a sheen of spilt food and the like.

He put his boy-cap on his head,
and tucked a woollen scarf around his neck, with the end tucked into his waistcoat.
He, then, put his light-blue socks on, and a pair of torn-up, dirty red converse shoes.

He hoped on his bike, to start delivering newspapers all around.
He was actually good at his job.
Accurate, pure, endeavoring,
tasting the sweetness of the air as he rode through the neighborhood.
It was autumn, and leaves were falling,
in the most divine way.
Brownly-orange, dried-up, light-weighted angels were singing the purest tunes, and dancing downwards, in unison.
A couple of sunrays reflected through the trees and into the grassy grounds.

The boy drove through the girl's house
He gathered some ash-like leftovers from some burning leaves, and drew a heart in the newspaper, which he threw at the house.
The newspaper landed perfectly on the doorstep.
But, how naive of him.
How immature. Thoughtful, at the very least, but still.