Brunch

Sundays were for waking up late And going to Fiore For the most sumptuous brunch You showed up in a pink sundress, I wore my favourite Pink Floyd t-shirt; I reached for a hug, You stopped me with a smile, One that felt more distant than Icarus; Greta took our order , But before leaving, She placed a Jenga set on our table, So we don't get bored while waiting; It looked perfect, The pieces stacked neatly With utmost care, But then you pulled a piece, The stack shook a bit, But as I pulled another, It seemed to fall back into balance, Looking at it brought me Almost the same level of peace That I find when I look at you When you are asleep and The moonlight falls on your skin; You pulled a new piece Like a reckless seven year old, As if the balance of the structure Somehow distressed you; Your face showed an expression Of a mighty accomplishment, The stack was now mildly lopsided, But another piece out, And equilibrium came back, You pursed your lips, And frowned to focus, After several minutes you pulled a piece Right from the bottom, But before I could bring back harmony, Down fell the stack, The pieces came crashing down, While people from the tables Four, Eleven, and Eighteen Stared at us with displeasure, I smiled in embarrassment, And when I looked back at you, You were gone, a note on Your side of the table; Our love was a game of Jenga, The only difference was that You played for the stack to crash, And I played to let the stack stay still.

//NaPoWriMo, Day 4