In the corner of the classroom, page fifty-five,
Whispers of a world where dreams stay alive.
Past perfect rains on the window pane,
“Had seen, had been,” we spell out the chain.
Maps of the moon taped above the clock,
Ticking “by the time” in a steady rock.
You fold a paper boat, write “someday I’ll fly,”
Launch it across the aisle, a silent reply.
Bell rings—our tenses mixed like sky and sea,
Yet every verb still leads you back to me.