Your Smile

When people talk about that moment

they talk about time becoming sand through their fingers

and the freeze frame of a blurry world,

the narrow lens where the corners of my vision turn to cartoon hearts

as the rest of the world ceases to be.

But,

the first time I met you,

it wasn't small and a million fireworks.

It was the big bang in a bird song.

My hand ached to slide into yours

and discover the meaning of perfect symmetry.

I didn't yet know your name,

but I wanted desperately to taste each syllable

as it fell from my lips.

To be honest,

I didn't fall hard,

not truly.

I fell the way a leaf does,

knocked from the branch by a gentle autumn breeze,

a languid twirl on the way down.

The first of you that struck me,

a thorn prick from the prettiest rose,

the kind that makes a blood oath with something sacred,

was the grin crawling across your face,

making a silkworm's journey across a maple leaf

something holy.

Could you feel the thread you tied between you and me?

The kind that, years from now,

will be plucked on an old guitar,

where the listeners beg for just one more song,

the kind of song we'll slow dance to in the kitchen

that no one else can hear

late at night

when it's your hand pressed into mine,

dipping me like fallen leaves.

The kind of thread our grandmothers stitched into the final square

of every quilt they laid over their children,

a wish that someday two souls could find the infectious joy

of a smile

over the Spring sunshine of a dandelion covered field.

I'd blow wishes on each one for

the courage to walk up to you,

to have you glance my way,

to become the reason you'd smile like that.

Someday, when all other moments fade

like an oil painting that's seen too much sunlight,

fallen victim to the flash photography of other people's memories,

it will be your smile

carved deep to the gold and ruby core of my cavernous mind.

For they say lust is but a flame that extinguishes with time,

rusts like flakes we'd peel from an old pick-up truck,

future grudges piled high in the back,

when all our sweet apples turn sour.

But, when the green of Robert Frost poetry become the Pooh Bears of Jack Kerouac novels,

I'll look forward to the lingering aroma of a charred wick,

cling to the last vestiges of the candle's final breath,

and bake countless pies out of the Granny Smith apples over the years.

Because sugar can turn lemonade sweet,

but I know a simple kiss can't always make everything right.

You, though, look like the kind of person willing to bake something new, when the times get tough.

To fall at first sight is cliche, I know,

but there's truth in a proverb

and who says a leaf doesn't fall at Autumn's grin?

Someday, I might pluck the flowers from that dandelion courage,

hold it out to you with a grin of my own,

and admit I'll take however long a forever I can with you.

To start,

I'll tuck these thoughts with a loose strand of hair behind my ear

and simply say,

"hi."