Our eyes met briefly
before they turned away,
so we could try to forget what they might say.
We forget the spark,
a bright light,
shining like a beacon in the dark.
We forget the connection,
the mere promise of a different tomorrow.
A tomorrow where we speak our first words.
The weak sounds of a shy wallflower,
delicate and soft to the touch,
fragile but so beautiful with
it's robust and deep colors that bleed
through the paper.
The dark stain growing wider as our hearts grow tired,
trying to hide the curiosity that our eyes sparked.
Perhaps we will never lay eyes on one another again;
however, if we do in the end,
I'll be glad to send,
the spark that blossoms our dainty flower until the end.
