Your hand is in mine.
My lips were on the back and
My cheek was, soon, too.
Here he comes, again.
I say his plan does not work
It is the best plan.
Still she pushes me
Away. If I mattered not
The door would be closed.
He does not give up
His tenacity, how it
Reminds me of me.
She is a flower
I am a counseled elf who
Is not yet ready.
How do we compare?
What is the same about us?
We can't write haiku.
"But you're Japanese."
"You're American."
"Then who's the Hawaiian?"
Sakura lit up but flushed at the same time. "So, you really do know me."
"Tell me why I wouldn't, Sakura." Alfred smiled and kissed her hand.
She reacted differently, once. This time, she put the palm of that hand on his cheek.
"'My cheek on the palm.'" He stood, closed the door, and sat down now next to her instead of across from her, taking her hand in his own, again.
She kissed his cheek, a gesture for which he was ready. Perhaps they were flowers that touched it. The two were happy.
Even so, still they could not write haiku, though one of them was Japanese.
