He was in the first grade, if he can distinctly remember.
Ground floor, dusty wooden tables with linear scars from
Historians and authors he would one day resemble.
Those creaky chairs, house for two, destined–
Permanent company. With a half-erased
Chalk-decorated blackboard; always pestering.
The transition between two discourses of
The same 40 minutes begins.
And so she gets up, outside her chair
To finally regain form and he stands there
Numb, amazed by a world beyond his capacity.
Glamour, eccentricities and a simple overwhelming;
All in a hair’s flip.
He’s motionless,
Well also his hair’s not even a quarter
Of justice.
She speaks gibberish with three others
Who all are opaque silhouettes,
Before–
Oh before she
Mesmerises
This vulnerable peak of a soul,
And entices him with
A gesture so unapologetically lethal.
He finally knows the colour
Of both her eyes.
A dangle of assumptions to rest,
As she simply smiles and glances away.
Before the next one enters.
But now he’s lost,
Trapped by the gore of
Her fluttering glance.
Songs don’t share the same tune,
The lyrics reflect meaning.
As he sits
Leans forward,
Chubby cheeks now sliding past his palm,
And his elbow loses balance on these scars.
Hoping, he soon authors them too,
With a return to this remembrance
And the sight, nay
Charisma of the glance.
Ground floor, and the class begins.
Devarya Singhania is a published poet, and has an Amazon Kindle Bestseller titled Armories and Arsenals. He deterministically intends to pursue watching The Big Bang Theory as a career choice. You can find him on Instagram through the username @iamdevarya.
Featured image: Jamez Picard / Unsplash