Her eyes were a spring sky the day we met.
Above our heads was not a single cloud,
and not a breeze tousled her hair,
yet something like a chill raced through me
when I first felt her embrace.
(Perfect, I thought.
She's perfect.)
The art of the renaissance
in the gallery where her shoulder first brushed mine
seemed amateur when she stood beside it;
in her vintage dress with her copper locks
and a smile that couldn't be captured with paint.
She was simply art in motion.
(Thank god she likes pictures.)
We ate dessert for lunch together
and then sat in the grass in the sun
where she taught me to make daisy chains,
but I wanted photos of the way the light encapsulated her like an angel in its halo.
(There's just something about her that makes me wish I were an artist.)
We got some stares afterwards,
when she walked me back to the station
with her hand proudly in mine,
but I didn't mind at all.
I was holding hands with a dream.
And even after we parted
I felt the flutter of her lips upon my cheek,
and wished we could have camped for hours more
in the classical books aisle,
discussing which stories had brought us to this point in our own lives.
(I want nothing more
than to know that girl better.)