Each word I write is finger stroking arm
Is eyelash touching cheek. So slight a touch
It never will amount to very much
I’m tentative. It’s all part of my charm
Not a seducer, but let’s make it clear
my verses are a signal of a sort,
Not chaste at all, and ready to be caught
Should she ever show interest. But I fear
this is a game two play. Bat to and fro
our hearts and lashes on a court as wide
as ocean. Neither of us can decide
which move comes next. All that I surely know
is that my verses cross the aching miles.
She reads them, blushes slightly and then smiles.