Soft Pulse | Andy Mo (9)

He sits at his desk in third period,sun rays gleam across his face.Someone jokes across the room,he tilts his head, almost smiling,tapping his foot, then sinks.

At lunch he’s there, but easy to miss,a nod, a glance, nothing reaching too far.He carries his tray, brushing through,and sets it down without presence.

The bell rings, the sky turns pale blue,and leaves tumble as they skitter across the floor.He strolls towards the familiar hall.A case clicks open, delicate but familiar.

He draws his bow, which glides like a flame through glass.The soft brushes and strokes left the roomas they dissipated into thin air.

At that moment, something clicked inside me.