On a brisk Seattle morning,
Dylan caught me, a thinker,
hook, line, and sinker
when she fished
for a lover on a site with profiles.
She scrolled to mine.
Dylan bit her bottom lip.
She wondered what my brown
eyes said behind closed doors,
and whether she could kiss my thick lips.
It’s what she imagined,
so told the story often,
especially when people asked how we met.
Dylan’s eyes lit up
and she embraced my hand
like a girl holding a boy’s
hand for the first time.
I smiled and corrected
the record here and there,
but she was in another place,
telling people about our first date.
We met at an outdoor coffee shop.
The birch-finished tables and evenly
trimmed shrubs mellowed our tones.
And the ‘90s R&B played through speakers.
Life didn’t care whether love did.
But this time, Dylan kissed me
like a wild frog; she restored me to life.
Love cared whether my life did.
We Dylan cared whether I did.
I cared whether she did or not.
Love addressed my mistakes with its mercy.
And the mercy God showed me was a life with Dylan.
I knew how to love
and shed my anxious attachment style.
We loved each other and are here,
telling our kids about it.