Contemplative.
I think about that word.
What does it mean?
The bus rumbles on, cutting a double-white line.
I hate that.
I'm too lazy to find out (why people won't abide the laws of traffic), so I turn back to page 72 of my textbook.
Diffusion is the movermkgionb ew jerojgg reohgpyh ahforb egjky phjbshg.
The words swim,
nothing makes sense
and the books snaps shut.
I decide to move on to Literature.
As I casually flip through the book, I eavesdrop on the primary schoolers' conversations.
They are talking about Maplestory and their zodiac sign.
One girl whispers to another.
Can ask that girl what her zodiac is?
I can hear you, you know.
The overhead air-conditioner hums an incessant tune, cold hair on end.
And I think of him.
Is this the real thing?
Should I drop it like a hot potato?
My friends disapprove.
Do I listen to my head, or my heart?
Sometimes, at night, I wake up and look at the pictures he sent.
And I wonder if he does the same.
The chatter is rythymic,
the gentle movement of the bus lulling,
and the book slips from my grasp as my head lolls onto the squashy chair-back.
With a jarring jolt,
I wake up to the irate horn of my bus driver.
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Cute, Sexy and downright Irresistable
1 comment:
Ohhh. Somehow I've missed your writing, and when I read this it made me feel almost nostalgic, like when we were Sec Ones trying to figure our way around our minds and reading each other's poetry and smiling and begging for comments almost unashamedly.
It feels so familiar, this post. Like the snapshot of a busride with the world a blur through the windows. I can really feel you, ya know? Like I'm right there sitting exactly where you were sitting, with my textbook on my lap and the cool air on my neck and the sound of the horn to wake me up, pull me away from my dreams.
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