Ringlets spring between my fingers,
I try to smooth them as a sigh slips out,
Sarcasm hangs heavy on my lip, but—
something else drips from yours
I try to meet your gaze but mine often strays
I can’t let my eyes give me away
My body will say what I cannot put into words
A poem can be written under those soft sounds,
Something more tangible and desperate, yet—
It is still more delicate than I could ever consciously pen.

A multitude of firsts.
Some he takes,
others I give freely.

Is love ping pong text conversations
fizzling out with a ghost

Swiping right on generic holiday photos
of someone who you'll know for a Friday night
forgotten by the long drive home

Waiting on a response
that'll never come lost somewhere in the postal system
and politics of blue tick marks

What happened to wondering what we'd done right to have met on the central line
as if for once the universe had aligned
under stars and city lights

What happened to being so smitten it hurt
on the back streets walking home
when it felt like you'd never let go

Your voice on the other side of the line
at three am because you realised I was the one
and I just had to know