We met on a Saturday.
I walked into a room and there
you were,
your eyes just barely meeting
mine
amidst your hustle and bustle
to occupy your friends.
But there was one moment
when we said hello,
shaking hands,
that I felt it again,
that old echo of initiative screaming
to be heard, demanding to take action.
Boldly, I complimented your every gesture,
every movement,
and you smiled in return.

Fast forward.
Two days later.

As I laid beside you,
sprawled atop your bedsheets,
you calmly told me that
these are the things
they write books about.