Her name is Grace - I never did find out the last.
She stands a little over six foot - has skin like teak and a smile that laughs.
I said, "I think I'm falling in love with you," on the seventh date.
She smiled. Punched my arm, too.
Whispered, "Don't go hitting the ground, lover boy."

We hadn't even started to soar.

When snow fell, it caught in her hair like a sea of crystal, stars soaking night.
I loved the scent each strand carried, floral oils a bright nasal bite.
She thinks the world of honey and judo, and names her sister the best.
Last Monday, she stole my phone charger.
Now we can't reconnect.

All that said - and a whole lot more left private - I wish her the best.

I wish her the kindest.