The air sang of yesterday’s rain and clouds bursting with thought.
I sat cross-legged on a wooden bench, absorbed in bits of conversation and quiet laughter.
I watched him spin his spaghetti into little knots on his fork, and wondered if I understood true love.
Our shared glass of lemonade had left it’s stamp on our table and the ice was dwindling in the summer heat.
His socks peeked above the hem of his faded canvas shoes; they were canary yellow with chocolate sprinkles.
I smiled because they reflected his soul.
Our conversation was scattered bits of memory and attachment, it spun around in the air till it formed our very own cloud of thought, full to bursting and floating above our heads.
I found connections so rarely, without physical contact.
And as unromantic as our Sunday lunch was supposed to be, the concept was a rather romantic notion.
I felt it under my skin, creeping to the recesses of my heart and pulling out secrets I hadn’t yet told myself.
The walls of privacy crumbled slowly, but crumble they did. And I did not try to build them back up this time.
With shaky smiles and nervous eye contact, I found that true love or not, with him, my actions did not need subtitles.