I still remember the first series of predictive conversation:
smiling as I do, but the ones at the time are matchless.
(You employed brackets when you weren’t supposed to),
(I liked you so I did too).
First, something warm would rush its walls
as (far from) innocence gave way to play,
and one X became two, then three, then fourteen once
after I delighted you with a compliment you weren’t expecting.
Payments skied and shyness dissolved as a tongue
so used to being bitten whilst acidic snipes rained around
was set free to practise its rusty lines. The times
I nearly failed, nearly nipped it in the bud, never to see
such a beautiful bloom as you and I.
That particular time (about the butterfly tattoo),
when you failed to seal your sentence with a kiss,
you damn right nearly broke my
thumb, as I hastily replied in enquiry/apology/both.
(Turns out you were making tea and rushing).
You caught me, I said.
To catch you, you’d have to be falling, you said.