Wait A Second, Rewind.

I jump over a crack in the sidewalk as we walk down the street,

You give me ten numbers on a coffee stained napkin, and I awkwardly extend my hand.

You don’t.

You pull me in for an unparalleled kiss.

Sort of.

My stunned eyes were open, ruining the moment.

I’ll probably tell you this down the road.

Close to the same point in time that you fall asleep with your head on my chest,

My arm numb under your tiny body,

As the pattern of the argyle couch imprints itself on my face.

I sit pretzel legged in the chair across from you,

You smile and think I’m laughing at your joke.

I’m not.

I chuckle because your shadow looks like a Velociraptor.

Sort of.

From this angle, I swear to you it does.

I’ll probably tell you this down the road.

Close to the same point in time that I set my toothbrush next to yours,

Place my glasses down precariously on the edge of the dresser,

And climb back in bed to sleep till noon.

I stumble past you and bathe your purse with coffee,

“Its ok, its an accident,” you say as I make use of my handkerchief.

Its not.

I had to relieve fate of his impossible undertaking for a moment.

Sort of.

Not sure how that all works, but I had to do something!

I’ll probably tell you this down the road.

Close to the same point in time that I get you to watch Star Trek with me,

Dive into a Clevenger novel,

And see Patrick Park play at the Troubadour.

I stand stoically in line directly behind you,

You make your order and I pretend to be looking at the specials.

I’m not.

I’m picturing your freckles through the back of your head.

Sort of.

Its hard to explain, but I was utterly mesmerized.

I’ll probably tell you this down the road.

Close to the same point in time that I’ve memorized the flecks in your eyes,

Know what every raise of your eyebrow means,

And can recite every endearing, antiquated expression you use.

But until the time is right,

Lets fast forward,

And pretend that everything was perfect.

We’ll pretend that

The kiss, the joke, the spill, and the gaze,

Were all stolen from,

Shakespeare, Hemmingway, Tolstoy, and Wilde.

Who all happen to be dead.

So no one will know the wiser.