My dear miss Able asked me about a hidden place.

A place where words go to find lovers.
A Tinder for f̶o̶r̶e̶p̶l̶a̶y̶  wordplay.

Where "She" swipes right on "Him" to create "Them".

Where "Un" and "Faithful" got together and made "Faithfulun"
Because "Faithful" is also seeing "Dyslexia"

Where my friend "Alone" swept left on "Everybody"
And never changed.

And "In" became "Indecent" when he, infatuated,
Increasingly indulged
Into "Inappropriation" while dating "decent" and then Indiscreetly descended into "Insanity".

Where "Baby" got "Back" after "Laid-Back" split when "Laid"
got "Off".

Miss Able doubted this place even after her first son,
"Question" who took her surname.



But this place does exist-

Where gold is mind inside a poet.

She'll read this as proof of my thoughts when she's away
That my mind never drifts, or heart ever sway,

And this beautiful ache I know as space
Is just another way to know her grace.

So I'll wait.

If only for a moment of her time,
I'll take what she gives,
A minute, or lifetime.