One Line at a Time
Beneath a sky just brushed with gold,
Scott met a voice he used to hold—
Christina's laugh, a spark, a flame,
That time had dimmed but not untamed.
They talked as if the years had fled,
In verses spun from things unsaid.
Each word a thread, each smile a sign,
Two poets tracing back a line.
The coffee cooled, the hours flew,
Yet every glance felt strange and new.
She spoke of storms and calmer seas,
He listened close, he let her be.
He wiped a tear that slipped her cheek,
Not out of sorrow—just too deep.
The kind of feeling soft and slow,
That only wounded hearts can
His heart is full and she can tell,
For her own heart felt this as well.
No rush, no scripts, no grand design—
Just wondering if stars align.
He cares, but lets the silence speak,
No promises, just week by week.
One date, one poem, one subtle chance,
To share a spark, a second dance.
She writes, he reads—then he replies,
In quiet ink beneath wide skies.
Two souls who once had slipped apart,
Now writing stanzas of the heart.
Scott W.
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