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.