she dances over the cracks in the sidewalk
(artistic superstition) and
he follows, fingertips intertwined like shadows
in the passionfruit purple night.

she is pale golden blonde;
blue eyes, one with smidgens of hazel.
his, supposedly, are flecked with gold
according to the girl that knocks on wood,
wishes on stars,
writes in a starry blue journal.

he ducks away at breakfast
because his hair is too messy.
she never leaves for study hall
until every wisp of pale golden hair is blown dry.
(they are perfect for each other.)

in perfect penmanship she writes
what if he doesn't like me after all?
eyes rolling,
i snatch my notebook back
write are you kidding me?
twice underlined.