Confessions of a 5'1"

There was this boy I used to talk to last year. He lived on my street and we'd always walk home together after school and have the most peculiar conversations. He was a strange one, after all.

I asked him one day about the half full or half empty glass question, "Which do you see?" There wasn't a hesitation in his response, "Neither, I'd be trying to figure out what exactly was in the cup."

"What if it was your soul?"
"Why would it only take up half the glass?"
"Maybe you just have a small soul."
"Maybe I'll just eat yours and mine will grow."
"Fuck off, it's mine...."

One Friday, I stopped him in the middle of the street with the rain drenching our shapeless bodies. A few cars honked at us to move, but they only joined in with Nature's symphony in the background. We stood still for a moment and I made a grab for his hand and placed it over my heart.

"Do you feel that?" I asked him. He'd only nod.
"It's ticking like a cheap clock," I explain. "But it still tells the time, even if it's a few minutes-or an hour off."

I watched him get under the shelter of his front porch and slowly look back at me with a kind smile. There always was enough sun for us both.

I was the strange one, after all.