he scribbled abstract shapes across my knee with an index finger. i weaved my own through one of the thousand curls that graced his beautiful head.
“if i wrote poetry for you, would i have half a chance?”
i sighed.
“it is more the poet than the poem, i’m afraid.”
i rested my head on his shoulder. i don’t think i’ve ever felt closer to him than in that very moment in time.
regretfully, it was not nearly close enough.