Who would have known
A simple staircase climb, requesting you, shivering in wait
Then the rehearsed truth wills itself out
Now we are here, in the other's presence, a different kind of music
A wish, perhaps, or a hunch
From one minute, all gutsy and free, to the next
When we see the clock and mutter some hopeful somethings
It was October eighteenth, I remember; eleven days later I turned seventeen
And then a bit after I glimpsed an 11:11 (and smiled)
(We speak and we smiled)

-cj