The Connection

The scene, late evening, a poetry night at one of those places where
kindred spirits listen to verse, converse, or versus in checkers or chess.
A young man is there.
A young lady enters.
Suddenly his attention is pulled from the stage...
He feels...

This feeling of course means that she's here.  And although he's only heard her read three times in the past, each piece seemed to know his heart, to call his name, beckon his soul, and long to be recognized.
Yet his tongue lay still, legs immobile.
Even his pen was rendered inactive in the midst of such obvious chemistry that is...

She settles in a few seats behind him.
The flow of the air places them downwind a gentleman selling incense.
Her scent stands out, airy and soft; inviting him to speak, yet bold and lingering; holding him at bay.
For hesitation save a wounded pride but fosters regret for love not tried.
A door opens, air currents reverse.
He rises and writes a whisper on the breeze.

Daring a glance he turns and finds her starring...at him???...Through him???
Time now stands along with him.
Was that a shiver from the cold, or cold bars being shook from her heart???
Ha, things like that only happen in paperbacks and the faux reality of Hollywood.
Delusions of grandeur and overactive imaginations require medication.
Internal struggles render him unsure, he hesitates, and now it's been that, "too-late" pause,
the one  from which recovery requires wit and courage only found in hind-sight, in our heroes, in our dreams.  That moment one can seek for a lifetime, but never realize.

The door closes returning life to the room as it had been,
and so he sits, self-defeated once more.
Breath he reminds himself.
(Inhale)
(Exhale)
(Inhale)
wrapped in a ribbon of her perfume...
he finds a note that reads...
The Connection.