Well, theywerehis. He recognised his own handwriting.
This person had been collectinghaikupoems, just like he had.Hispoems.
He had just literally run intohis poet.
Hastily smoothing down frazzled nerves, he tried to give a reassuring smile, hoping his poet dared raise their gaze, currently fixed on the floor, to see it.
“Sorry for bumping into you,” he said, trying to sound non-threatening as possible. “My name is Gareth, he/him.”
The startled pixie-poet eyed him cautiously with lapis-lazuli eyes, seemed to evaluate him as not a threat, and quietly replied, “I’m Soren, he/they.”
Composure ruffled again by the glimpse of pink tongue between perfect pillowy lips, Gareth blurted out, “God, even yournamesounds poetic!”
Soren startled, regarding Gareth in surprise.
Rather than try to explain in words, Gareth dug into one pocket, extracted his spare wallet, opened it, and held it out to show Soren the scores of coloured paper squares tucked inside. He then reached into his other pocket, pulled out the lone pink Post-it, which he had taken from the book a minute ago. Actually took the time to read it:
If I asked you to
come to my place, would you turn
poems into practice?
There was an extra line underneath: a phone number.
This poem was different from the others. Not pure raunch—despite the implied offer in the last line—this one was anactualrequest. The poet reallyaskingfor something. Making themself vulnerable.
Gareth looked over the edge of the note, at Soren, who was still regarding him with apprehension, but also recognition, cautious hope—and what Gareth hoped was hunger, as their gaze took in Gareth’s gym-toned body, taupe-brown skin, close-cropped dark hair, grey-green eyes.
They didn’t say anything, just waited for Gareth’s response. Let theirhaikudo the inviting.
Seized by sudden inspiration, Gareth fumbled his bag open, taking out his Post-it pad and pen. Using the edge of a nearby shelf to lean on, he wrote the first line, paused to hum thoughtfully, tapping the end of his pen against the shelf seventimes to count syllables, then five more taps, making sure what he wanted to say fit within thehaikuformat.
He peeled off the Post-it and handed it to Soren, now adorned with a hastily scribed poem:
Practice makes perfect
Take me home,I’ll help inspire
all your future poems
Gareth had likewise included his phone number.
Soren stared at the poem for a long moment. Then he raised his head, regarding Gareth steadily.
This time, their pink tongue darted out in a deliberate lip-lick.
A shudder of lust went through Gareth. Those lips did indeed look like they were made to be wrapped round his dick.
He hoped Soren’s place wasveryclose by. If he managed to walk the distance with the hard-on he was now sporting—a glance down told him that, gratifyingly, Soren was in a similar state—he had the feeling he was about to witness some poetry in motion.
* * * *
Seventeen months later, they’d had many conversations, most of them more than three lines long.
Gareth had told Soren all about himself: his job as an aged care assist worker, driving out to clients’ homes to help them carry heavy groceries, do household chores they no longer had the strength or mobility to do. The gym workouts that gave him muscle with which to lug bags of mulch across a yard, or lift a fallen gentleman who had tripped on a rickety step. How after his ADHD diagnosis, he’d found that running on the treadmill while listening to audiobooks helped him lose himselffor a while, occupy his racing mind. That crosswords and literacy puzzles fascinated him—hence why he had immediately latched onto a dirty poem he found in a random book—plus the dirtiness quickly inspired him to come up with some filth of his own.
Soren told him about the college course on creative writing he’d done, which had introduced him tohaiku. How they had set up social media accounts where they shared their poetic impressions of life with thousands of followers (Gareth was in the process of convincing them to collect their best verses into a book for publication). About his job writing technical manuals, which at least used his literature degree, but was tediously dull, so to break the boredom he had placed a dirty poem inside a book at his local bookstore as an experiment. How they had become smitten with the funny, witty, flirty person who wrote back—then, during the intervening months, developed an appreciation for green-agate eyes, cedar-dark skin, well-muscled height.
