Blue sky. He always wondered.

The tea, the colour of her irises. He wondered about that too.

Brown; the colour of the door. It was dark, with the quality of chocolate, though not as sweet. Polished, like a well known symphony. Ragged, from the number of times it had been slammed shut against its frame. Brown; but not of her. Of poetry; but not of her. He wondered if she cared.

She wondered.

And all this time, the tea grew cold. The taste, however, did not.

Perhaps if he were to be poor- then perhaps more value he would hold to him. It was a thought that danced when he thought no one watched, sang when the voices outside stopped their a capella.

He was solemn when he said it, speaking as if the words were wisdom, each on its own yet never together.

Two kinds of people in the world. The wealthy and the poor-

Blue sky. He always wondered.

-And it never changed.


First drabble 164 words. Please review!