fledgling

The afternoon break. The silent whispers would erupt into bustling conversations and laughter, with the occasional clang of metal snack boxes and desks that take on the roles of cajons for those happy fifteen minutes.  Then the voices recede to a distant blur, then to a serene silence. Some fidget with the uncomfortable emptiness. Yet, it is those quiet, delicious moments spent staring into the depths of my soulmate, that I truly long for. He is not perfect, but rather beautifully flawed.  One could never spot him on the shelves of those perfectly lit, fancy bookstores. He is not one carefully clothed in expensive black rayon and gold prints, or stitched with smooth, pearl white pages that would make any writer go weak in the knees. The edges of his paper cover are worn to mere fibres, with occasional smears of ink from moments when I was buried deep in my thoughts and let the pen go from making rhythmic taps, to weeping through the pages.  He was the shadow I carried along wherever I