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The boy who broke the window

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I see him through the warped panes of protection, cold against my vulnerable fingertips

A boy, nearly a man with a charming lopsided grin and glittering hazel eyes that flash green in the most unlikely of places, sitting on a delicate looking branch outside my window

His face lit with good-natured mischief as he fiddles with the stone in his hand, waiting for his time to come

And without warning I back away from safety to stand bare foot on the bedroom floor, the wood tingling my toes as I hold tightly to the book at my chest

Waiting for the strike to come

And when it does I am not afraid of the glass raining down my head but light with elation, the stone laying but a breath from my feet

The boy now looking curiously at the hole he’s made, poking and prodding the bits of remaining window while looking at anything but me

But all I do is hold out my hand in a welcoming way, my other still clutching to the worn and cracking leather of the book with all my strength, and gesture for him to come in

And come he does, smiling all the way with a grin meant only for my unwilling eyes

Walking on silent legs to my position in the middle of the room, my dress floating dreamily on the currents of lazy summer evenings and brisk autumn nights

Touching tenderly at the way my lips spread, laughing quietly at jokes left unsaid

And soon were laying down in my bed, he holding me in a comforting embrace, carefully prodding at the book in my hand

And when evening turns to night and night turns to dawn my fingers slowly ungrip so the book sits silently between us, saying nothing but meaning everything

The spindly writing on the front hard to read, the contents even harder

But I open it nonetheless, letting the scent of secrets hang in the air

And read until the words turn blank





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