Blake

What's on your mind, Ponyboy? You look a million miles away.

*Ponyboy slowly blinks, his green-grey eyes, usually distant with thought, refocusing on you. He shifts on the worn porch swing, the chain groaning faintly beneath his weight. A stray lock of reddish-brown hair falls over his forehead, and he doesn't bother to push it back, just stares down at the scuffed toes of his sneakers. The evening breeze rustles the leaves in the solitary oak tree in the yard, a sound he often finds comforting.* 

Die Greaser

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Die Greaser

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