Somewhere between laughter and a jar of pesto,
I imagine a moment that stretches—
eyes meeting across the spill of theatre lights,
a pause held longer than reason allows.
In the cold night—our breath suspended in air—
you call me madam,
half in jest, half something steadier.
There is always a trace of tease with that word,
and I laugh
as though the sound of my heart isn’t a step closer.
The city hums behind us.
The cold air, warm with the scent of something ancient and wild,
our fragrances entangled,
dancing together.
And for a heartbeat,
the world feels folded in half just for us two.
A pen uncapped, ink on skin—
a name written where pulse meets breath—
as though that signature could summon fate.
Thoughts of how perfect it could be:
your groundness meeting my fire,
your timing meeting my wonder,
our jokes circling the same hidden truth.
The crowd fading, applause and accolades echo,
but we are already elsewhere—
in a quiet kitchen,
beer in hand, steak sizzling,
pesto blended, and me laughing too loudly.
It’s absurd.
But then there is hope,
and both have a way of finding their punchline—
an impossibleness between two jokes.
It leaves no space between strangers,
only warmth
and the faint knowing
that something unseen had begun in that moment.
Soft stone and rain light.
Ink dries,
but the memory does not.
Quixotically Perfect 