My Life In Word

He schools his breath, keeps posture loose,
let's confidence arrive unforced,
measures every word he chooses,
hoping charm won’t sound rehearsed.
He watches how her laughter lands,
files each detail in his mind,
steps close enough to feel the heat,
but far enough to seem benign.
He wonders if she feels it too,
that current passing hand to hand,
and plots no ending—only this:
to stay, to spark, to gently stand.

She notes the pause he leaves in air,
the careful way he doesn’t lean,
the practiced ease, the sideways glance
that asks more than what’s seen.
She feels the pull but guards her ground,
lets silence test what words can’t prove,
decides if this is hunger masked
or patience shaped like truth.
She meets his gaze, not giving much,
but not retreating from the flame—
she’ll choose the pace, the depth, the door,
and whether he may stay.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Good Faces on Unsplash

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