We met in February,
snow painted red-bricks looming,
flaring nostrils crisply inhaling;
we scampered across the boulevard
doused in the wake of passing tires.

We kissed on a Wednesday,
economically sharing a cab,
considerately a chaste peck,
stirring up a faint blush
while you clutched my hand.

I fell in love one morning
wrapped in a paradox of your limbs;
I extricated myself miserably,
condemned to hard labor
from nine to five.

You called me today,
the unrecognized number
churning cement in my stomach,
an answer to the the seven digit prayer
I left this morning on your pillow.