Bookshelf
I think of you, almost everyday.
Often, as the one that got away.
But you're just one of many,
Or rather, there were never any.
I still remember your name,
But do you remember mine?
I'd like to think that,
I left a mark behind.
Your scent it was that drew me,
My nose, it pointed true.
A shelf of books, you admired,
While I admired you.
I noticed you were still there,
When I was taking my leave,
So I made excuses to wait it out,
While my courage tried to lead.
The universe, it conspired,
For the two of us to meet,
Because it began to rain,
When it was time for me to leave.
Eventually I approached you,
While you were trying to read,
I felt I piqued your interest,
When we exchanged pleasantries.
You were not as forthcoming,
As I had wished you would be.
So I left you my number,
Hoping you would take the lead.
We both know you never called,
Or ever sent a text.
And often I wonder if it's because,
Of something that I said.
I distinctly remember your blush,
When we beamed each other's smiles,
And even the rain it only stopped,
When it felt like destiny was mine.
To be honest, I truly felt,
That we as a pair, had a real connect.
Which is probably why, even today,
I often think you're the one that got away.
