Rosseaux

There he goes, Rosseaux. Watching, witnessing, abhorring. Rosseaux walks and stops. Ardently, he imagines. With eyes closed, lashes tender, head tilted to one side. Heart beats but brows furrow; imagines.
Sweat drops flow but trembling whole. Scared, I’m scared! he mumbles. Ever so timidly. Imagines. What life would be if he was braver. He walks again, eyes half-mast; dreamily and sleepily. Walks. Oh, heck. he mutters. Played a fool, was he ever. Tugs his olive green shirt with number “9”. Should he remain a coward or a fool? Ponders, wonders, bewilderment. Ambles casually now. Ruffling blonde hair; with a hand. Cloudy gaze, cloudy mind. Almost unsound.
He blanches, mind almost hateful. Why? Why is this happening to me? he questions desperately. Lamentable, the look in his eyes. Almost hopeful, presumed to be. Except, no one answers his question; not even the wind. There is a fading sound of his sneakers shuffling as he walks away to a distance and disappears.