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FIVE MINUTES AFTER THE BELL RINGS, you come strolling in, with wings of fire. Your ruby red lips and stormy eyes show no sign that you acknowledge the person at the front of the room. It is the back that welcomes you. I do not sit there.
I write pages and pages, but I cannot feel for any of them. The meaningless text and the meaningless writing numbs my soul, and it can only be thawed by what I write to you.
But you sit in the back, your essay untouched, your books unopened. I reach out for you, but then pull back, a morning tide yearning for the shore.
Your hair is no longer the perfection it was. You run your fingers through it, as if tugging on the strands will pull your thoughts into being.
The bell rings for the last time, and the class erupts into laughter and conversation as the day ends. The school of fish rush out to their next destination.
The words in front of me follow them, a current in a stormy ocean. But I can only think of the words in my heart and how to deliver them to you.
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