Forks and Kisses
The first encounter, a jittery state,
I was a whirlwind of nerves for a pivotal date.
He messaged and reached out, a gentle touch,
making me feel like I mattered so much.
In the heat of his day, I was Number One,
the spark of a romance had finally begun.
We sat for a meal, the mood was just right,
with pasta Carbonara—my purest delight.
But then came the horror, a tragic display:
he tackled his pizza the "gentleman" way.
With a fork and a knife, he sliced every piece,
I prayed for the soul of that pizza to cease.
Despite the sad cutlery, humour was there,
a funny, sweet energy filled up the air.
When he leaned in to kiss me, the world fell away,
a "treasured and seen" kind of magic, I’d say.
I felt truly valued, a feeling so rare,
like every soft word was a gift or a prayer.
The night reached its end near the parking lot light,
and his chivalry seemed to have taken a flight.
He stood by the door with a wave and a grin,
while I looked at my car and the darkness within.
"You’re walking me there!" I asserted with pride,
and he marched to my door, right there by my side.
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