I hear what you say peripherally
as you smile, touch my arm, blush,
and it is not so much what you say,
as it is the nature of the flirt,
the yin and yang. I find myself nodding
at you with the mocha eyes,and jet black hair,
you with the effervescent charm,
the kind smile, and cherry lips.
I think of our first date,
how knee knocking nervous I was,
how I forced the conversation,
the tight smile, my inner critic seeking
to nullify this connection. I remember
you asking: "Are you as nervous as I am?"
and I relaxed, and melted a little
as our minds melded, stopping time
for just a fraction. I can still taste
your raspberry kisses from that night
as I accidentally leaned against the inside
door, ringing apartments 102 and 103 by mistake,
how my neighbor shouted out - "Who's ringing
the bell at this hour?" - as we both hid
on the shadows and giggled, full of warmth
and connection.
So here we are once again, and you are talking,
and the words don't matter, but they do,
but they don't. You are the ultimate poem.
Your banter has a rhythm in time and space
that speak to all parts of me, from within,
and out.
Speak to me. Keep talking. Speak to me please.
I will smile and you will nod, my arm
will brush against yours, and I will shiver
ever so slightly.
Speak to me. Speak to me. Speak only to me.
(C) 2011
