The Boy

Some adolescent I am.

Struggling with the deviance of a boy who has never been allowed to play. Now it’s a different story; he’s fretting to let loose. He’s agonizing over greener grass, fuller lips and finer kisses. His paradox is pressing, but he’s clueless. Shrug it off, and the world is his, for a while. That world of no plan, no consequence, no guilt, no time and no where.

The boy gives no damn about the familiar mistakes – not the glance that lingered too long, not the waking fantasies, not the heavy breathing, nor the thumping veins beneath his shell. He gives no damn about getting caught red handed, knee-deep in a serious case of infatuation.

He’s half sleepwalking, fixated on the fabric of her skin and the life in her restless body, radiating in her curly smile, betraying the shyness in her eyes.