I have not a novel, but a story to tell
Of persons two, both stubborn to hell.
The first actor, the finer one, I’ll keep her name as ‘me’,
The other one name I shall not, just call him ‘you’ or ‘he’.
It all began in littlehood, when ‘me’ and ‘he’ were small
Barely reaching the garden walls, barely even as tall.
Bickering to their heart’s content, sniggering all the time.
Yet holding up when one fell, helping dust the slime.
The sands of time flew by us, and taller did we grow.
I felt a tug within me too, as time stilled to slow.
It was a first flush, the very first red tinge of blush
The first flutter the first brush, the butterflies the blood rush.
I looked away as you did too, me not knowing what to do
Yet glance at your house I did, hoping I will see you too.
Time flew again in hurry still, and here at present do we stand
You have your love, I could mine too, tucking away my blowing strand.
I see you still walking by, I tear my gaze from the glance,
Acting numb to the blood rush, not willing to take the chance.
I speak too, when spoken to, or when in dire need
You act different yet glimpses of same, paying pleasantries no heed.
It is not, that we are not, a big little possibility,
We are puzzles to the plot, so we can call us what I thought- An Infinite Improbability.