The Perfect Fit
Is this chair free?"
"Sadly, not. Finest oak, sprinkled with fairy dust
hence extremely and extensively expensive!" she teased;
their eyes touched then bumped away.
He was French and a little confused; she just wanted to be!
A smile sprang off the top springboard of her mouth,
performing a perfect somersault
pirouetting onto his bottom lip
to linger with warm intrigue.
Simultaneously they laughed
and for a few seconds
their mirth seemed to tentatively hold hands.
Days later... that relationship
had threaded a gossamer cobweb of attraction.
Weeks later... nuances dallied,
private thoughts revealed, intimacy heightened.
Months later...they reached the stage
and page of mentioning age;
they just nittered and nattered
that it mattered... not!
He was twice her age;
she, half his size.
He was French, she was English.
The perfect fit!
And so, the relationship jitterbugged forward
expressed with a language of love.
The narrative over the years
dictated by humorous commas, tender semicolons,
occasional crusted exclamation marks
until time's clock ran out and, sadly, the final full stop laid.
She sits now, turning the pages of warming memories in her mind;
pulling back those first few words he had offered her.
"Is this chair free?"
She mimicked the smile that had first enticed him
and painfully whispered, "C'est maintentant, mon cheri!"
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
