He wrote words that had soft fingertips,
with a soppy grip.
Accepting her graceful presence
with pillow chocolates.

He dared arrive into her bracing eyes,
that stares flames down from the sky.
He said he wouldn’t walk the path of broken rubble
risking the explosion of his personal bubble,
against the world.

Her ink started to spread in water on his arm,
where her number was written.
Drowning in the drizzle of night
he was smitten.

He became someone she’d want to be forgetting,
because when he is infatuated,
100%
Doesn’t cut it.

He became the number, incomplete.
only one digit away from being able to speak.
It was then he remembered where she said she’d be,
the following week.
So coincidentally, they bumped into each other.

He was anxious, with a minor stutter.