over a pool table, back to the door.
Black shirt, black belt snug against black jeans,
slim cue easy in his hands as I walk across the floor.
A stubborn lock of blonde hair flopping
over a focussed face. Concentration
etched along a slim frame.
A sudden thrust,
as he breaks the balls,
sending them skittering
across the fuzzy
The shock as I behold him; the
arrow that lodges in my heart, the surety
that he is unconsciously inhaling my presence.
No need to glance my way; the love must have seeped
through his bloodstream. When he’s alone,
he will feel it. The tide in his veins
will wash him to me.
A week later, I jiggle
in a crammed dance hall, awaiting
the tide. He arrives, his eyes scanning
until they find mine. We have never met,
not yet spoken, yet there is
no surprise, only
A silver mist,
created by our gaze,
disperses the crowd. Friends
and strangers melt away.
We dance in our
my hair, holding me close, his lips
tantalisingly close to my ear, he whispers,
“Jane”. It seems natural that he
knows my name, just as I
I thought it might be a good idea to write something romantic, since my next post is likely to be a rant…
©Jane Paterson Basil