Can I borrow your pen from chap stick moist lips. There is chalk on your hands, some on her cheek. It washes off pretty easily.

Her polka dot dress sways with the wind, it’s in your favour. Holding hands down lit up boardwalks. Letting lazy breezes dance her hair to the sky. A picture worth a frame, but you’ll have to clear a space.

Short walks home turn to long conversation on coloured pavement. Jumping on the numbers you’ll slide into her pocket. Cracks make everything so beautiful.

You don’t count them on your way home anymore.