Golden string

How many coffees does it take to fall in love?

Woman with purple knitted hat and heaven curled hair

sipped on cup four. Feelings are not mathematical

there’s no golden number but there might just be a golden string.

It wrapped around them on the slushy night when he walked her home

its thread crocheting knots as they knit their lips together

the first time. Love cannot be counted but romance languages can

and between the two of them three tongues are spoken

but “I love you” can be said without words.

 

“I love you” was the gust of wind that blew those curls by honey drenched eyes

“I love you” squealed from the wet mouth of that trumpet

in that jazz club, her palm aching for his as purple skies indicated the end of a day.

They only had a limited supply of hours but that one golden string

invisible to the naked eye, even to his supple hand. It can be heard

in their footsteps, in the 4 am moon, it is breathless as a drum

light as her milky skin. It twines over trees, it boarded that plane with him.

Every morning that knot sinks deeper and tighter as she plunks notes on her ukulele,

he thinks he feels a tug around his finger and looks out the window.

Staring at the same golden sun, the spool of string.