Love Poem Inside

It was one of those chocolates that looked like it melted away sweetly inside the mouth and left a memory on the mind.

He stood in the aisle longer than necessary.

He had originally reached for a chili chocolate. Something that reminded him of her, fiery yet cute.

But then he hesitated, chili felt like a statement. So he picked up a caramel dark chocolate. A safer compromise, much like his personality with hints of dark jokes.

On his way to billing, he passed by a bunch of tulips.
He paused and imagined handing them to her. But then reality tapped him on the shoulder.

Flowers on the first date? That is a lot.
Too intentional, he wanted to seem effortless, not like someone who rehearsed conversations in the shower.

Later that evening, they were sitting next to each other, somewhere softly lit.

He sild the chocolate across the table.

“There is a poem inside the wrapper” he said, as if he had hand written it.

“What kind of poem?” she began to unwrap carefully, like it might break if hurried. “Do you want to read it?” she asked

Inside was a Sonnet by good old Will.

Sonnet 23 to be precise.

He cleared his throat, as if he was about to perform a recital, which in his head he absolutely was.

He began reading. The words sounded nice but somewhere between metaphors and the rhythm, he lost the meaning entirely.

The poem talked about the poet’s inability to convey his emotions clearly to his beloved and begs her to find them expressed in his writings.

He paused halfway struggling with the old English “I think he is bad at writing poems”

She smiled, not at him but with him and then she explained it.

Her elective in English Literature helped her break it down as to how it was about longing and expressing ones love. About how sometimes what we really mean comes out clearer on paper than in person.

He listened, really listened.

And somewhere between her words and the quiet way she said them, the poem stopped being the most important thing at the table.

Without thinking too much, he took her hand in his.

It felt soft, not just in the way that skin felt soft, but also in a way that made you stay there.

She did not pull away, she instead, blushed.

As if her cheeks had been waiting to do that all evening for this exact moment,
like they had a spare tank of blood reserved just for blushing.