Taped Tennis Balls

A glimpse back. A minute.
Now that seemed infinite.
Two 8-year-olds
Across the playground courts.
They knew nothing better and nothing worse.
No unuttered grudges, no cold remorse,
No holding back thoughts, no repelling force.
“Will you play with me?”
“Of course.”

Never ending conversations
Illogical fascinations
Unrelated correlations
Misunderstood connotations
Games full of incarnations
Overhearing informations
Idiotic laughter sessions
Dead serious operations
Till they’re knocked right off all…sensations.

10 years across the timeline.

Now there’s a fine line
Between their playground courts,
Cut off by countries and ports.
They have their very own forts,
No TNT cords
Not even social networks
Can bear the weight of the distance, anymore.

A barely inhabited chatbox.
“Any exams going on?”
“Yes.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.”

They go to sleep hoping to dream of all the taped tennis balls they’d lost.
Among other lost things.

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