One autumn evening on my phone screen
Appeared an exquisite music ad:
Pine-thin, with eyes – distilled blue gin, marine–
There chased someone a British lad.

Amidst the turquoise color, the deck of hearts he serenaded;
And even though he was untouched by morning ray,
And even though he stood in pensive thoughts so deeply barricaded –
This hardly cheapened his array.

His voice committed a break-in
Into my catalogue of outmoded dreams:
As soon as music penetrates my skin
I feel as if we’ve synchronized bloodstreams.

The queen of hearts may one day cease to reign
Won’t cease the magic of a boy with hazel mane.