It's in the way he smiled at me when we first met
Nothing special about his smile but the chipped tooth
The way those eyes tell a million stories and yet are so kind
He listens
I’ve never had that before
And calls me out on my *******
Because he knows I like to lie

He doesn't put people down for things they enjoy
I’ve never had that before
He respects my passion and lifts me
He treats me like I want to be treated
Because i'm sick of being treated like an ignorant little girl

He's nice to everyone and
I’ve never had that before
Even if he dislikes them he's compassionate and kind
And sees good within the worst

And although his hairs to long
And although his brothers a *****
And although I still feel judged by him sometimes
I’ve never had someone like him before

Safety
Love
Warmth

I’m not afraid to call him whenever
And I was already friends with his friends
He notices things, even before, that no one else does
And is genuinely happy for me

And i've never had that before
Never had the kindness
Never had the unconditional
Never had the best friend
But I guess thats because i've never had him before.

Like a quiet summer night,
it was—
or a gentle gust of wind,
and just as fleeting:
Their fated meeting.

The first day I saw him,
That was different,
And I start observing.
I knew that,
Not everyone in this world is real,
But when I realized,
there was no one real like him.

When my eyes first met him,
Like magic in his eyes,
And I lost it all.
I still knows it's the,
Best thing that happened.

When we talked,
Kindness in his smile,
It's just like,
As if the happiness ,
is just living with him.
And falling in love with him,
Was the finest thing that happened.

All of my life I waited
For you.
Walking on a path sometimes,
Or wandering in a mountain wood.
Even escaping to the tropics,
To let the sun burn my desire for you
This way or that.
But each time I looked behind,
There you still were,
Not fully formed at first,  
But a shadow.
Or sometimes light.
Then there was a sense
Of possibility, hiding in the air
That shivered around you,
But caused my course to veer  
Ever so slightly toward you,
Like ancient footprints in rock,
Deciding for me.
I never believed in Fate
Until I met you,
Standing in the doorway
Of a cottage, outlined  
With October’s warming sun.
I did not see your face then
But I knew.
And decades after
The same certainty abides,
Alongside any other gales
Of emotion or  
Temperate joy.
Around you a brilliance
Hovers in my soul.
Where you walk
Beyond my sight,  
My eyes still see you
And my love  
Follows in your path.

This is how we meet:
It's a cocktail party, ****
big baby blue eyes and
the smell of your skin
lingering in every corner.
Out on the country lawn, we all
give whiskey kisses
and blanket smiles.
Tonight I'm lined with teeth and
you're bored out of your mind.
On the radio, a song plays
I just wanna feel something
.

Remember when we first met?
                  I wish we could meet again for the first time.

My attraction towards her was fatal.
For the realest things to come from her lips affected me in more ways than one.
You see truth speaks volume.
And the beauty that comes from her lips was more than I anticipated.

Feeling my attraction begin to rise.
I attempted to switch the subject.

Finding that we both shared the same amount of pain.
Adding value to each subject that rose.


I began to feel that there was more for me.
My self consciousness reacting before I could gather myself completely.

I felt a sense of liberation.
No longer the day I had at work, what I was planning to eat on the way home.

More instead how every other thought included her.
The respect held eye to eye.
The avenues of how her day went, the ins and outs.

The evidence that I found what I was missing.
And I didn't understand one bit.

 

I suppose it's better that way.
Stepping outside of myself into the crossway leading off into the street.
A dark backdrop highlighted by a white light of a bald man walking before it turns
A reddish orange.
Though nothing is as harmless as it seems.
I felt at ease staring into her eyes.

 

Stepping inside of her mind was like walking into an art gallery.
Her interests, technological advances all highlighted in bright and violet hue.
All in the span of 10 minutes walking in.
Mutually we both spoke with our hands.
We'd throw fits with our laughs, indulging in the philosophy of smile.

 

With morality aroused I instantly began questioning myself.
Wanting to know more I asked question, after question.
Anything as a means to have kept her talking. Feeling an everlasting peace.
Walking downtown in an abundance of space, I felt I could breathe.

But I couldn't shake that she felt that I was like most guys.
That at any moment, as comfortable as she was, she was still waiting on me
to give any indication that I was no different than the faces pointed down scrolling down their phone.

 

And we,
Like separate thumbs.
Belonged to different people
Trouble

That magic summer where we first met and wooed
fades further from us with each passing year.
The words we spoke are gone; the words' tune lingers on.

We'd tasted love--
sweet, imbalanced, temporary--
now longed for the same only more complete,
more complementary.

Intimacy comes easily to some.
Others store their feelings up:
treasure for those who can rightly claim it.

We met at a party for new students,
drinking strawberry daiquiris.
For me, the attraction was immediate;
a bit slower for you, you say.

We were wary; our trust grew quickly.
And we, in the confines of this serious trust,
at last could be
our own childish, playful selves.

We went to movies, plays, folk-dancing;
walked in Crystal Lake Park;
ate; watched your soap opera;
touched each other constantly;
fought; made up elegantly.

And then, as we sat on a warm stone bench
on top of that underground library,
eating lunch,
--heart in throat--I said:

"The pleasure I have known in being with you
for these six weeks is something quite unusual.
And if the same is true for you,
if this's a love which could lead to marriage,
then I will try to find a job nearby,
where I can see you frequently.
But if your love is of a lesser sort, then I
will cast my net this great world o'er
and go where Fortune takes me."

                                   Then you,
not hesitating a single moment,
flooding my eyes with your radiant smile,
replied, "It could! Oh yes, indeed, it could!"

Much has happened since,
but I say it was then, that summer, that moment,
love reached the final, high plane
where we, though hardly conscious of it now, still dwell.

It promised to be quite ordinary,
that old student/new student/faculty social hour.

I had come to Champaign with high hopes a year earlier,
starting a new career (--and hoping to find someone to love).
Now, with just three months left,
my studies had been a success,
but I had not found anyone to love.
And now I was thinking beyond Champaign:
where I would go, what I would do with my new degree.

I scanned the faces in the crowd.
Mixed in with all-too-familiar classmates and teachers were new people:
A formidable, blonde-haired woman
with a big voice and a large imitation pearl necklace;
no meek, retiring librarian here; a Valkyrie.
A guy with wire-rimmed glasses in his early twenties;
congenial, but serious; he had studied engineering.
A girl; stylish, extroverted;
loved Faulkner; engaged to be married.
A sensitive, thirty-ish woman; recently divorced;
her ex had stuck her with a mountain of credit card debt.
And you, in a pink dress.
No jewelry, not much makeup.
Nice figure.
Very simple, very pretty.
A wonderful smile.
Obviously bright.
You had gone here as an undergraduate.
You had taught school in Iowa for several years
and now were back to get a Library degree.
You had grown up on a farm.
You were eminently lovable.
You were, amazingly, unmarried.

I felt that I was at an art exhibition in nineteenth century France.
Here was Raffaelli's "Boulevard of the Italians"
which had sold for 500 francs.
Over here Lecomte de Nouy's "Ramses in His Harem"
which had brought 1900.
And over here in the corner, neglected,
Van Gogh's, "The Artist's Room at Arles".
I felt like shouting,
"My friends, can't you see the beauty of this painting:
its simplicity and purity, its energy; the symphony of its colors!
You have opted for these smooth, conventional paintings
and left this one, the most valuable of all, unsold. . . ."

I felt like hugging you, right then and there.

You were number two or three on my all-time "instant attraction" list.
But I was wary -- so many others had not worked out, why would you?

Our first date was a "Streetcar Named Desire".
I put my arm around you during the play and held your hand as we walked back    toward your apartment.
I invited you to "Bubby and Zadie's" cafe. You refused and offered no alternative.
I was devastated. So this, too, would come to nothing.
We would walk the three blocks back to your apartment.  We would say    goodnight.
I would go home and cry. That would be that.

But when we arrived, my hopes soared: you invited me up to your apartment. You really just didn't like Bubby and Zadie's -- and you liked and trusted me well enough that the intimacy of your apartment didn't seem inappropriate. We talked for a long time and kissed. When I left, all traces of wariness were gone. The coming weeks would not be ordinary.