It's been awhile since I've seen the Balcony Boy.
I miss seeing his lean figure with his brown hair blowing in the Manhattan breeze.
I miss noticing how his calloused fingers would grip the iron rail as if it were his lifeline.
I want to know that he is okay.
I leave my apartment, and go to the door next to mine.
I want to knock. I want to bang on the door until it bursts open.
So why don't I?
I go inside, but I'm not done yet. I grab a piece of paper and a blue pen.
I'm going to write the Balcony Boy a letter.
YOU ARE READING
He Smells Like Love.
Historia CortaI always saw him leaning on his balcony railing, peering down at the bustling street, lost in thought. Every morning. So I thought, why not ask him what was on his mind? I didn't think that there could be so many thoughts racing through one's head. ...
