He’d like to be able to say that he fell in love with her the first time he saw her.

He can’t.

If he’s speaking honestly, the first time he saw her; the first time he heard her voice, he was intimidated. 

He remembers it clearly. She came out on stage, the overhead lights bathed her in their muted gold, casting shadows across her features. Immediately a hush fell over the crowd, it seemed that she had a reputation to precede her. All eyes followed her as she made her to center stage, she briefly glanced over the crowd before she began. 

As the words spilled from it was like she had been reborn. She was animated, loud, in your face - and he loved it. She crossed back and forth on that small stage, commanding it like it was her birthright. He could tell that this was her calling. His eyes slinked their way down her form, making note of the bend in her knees, the muscles pulled taught in her forearms, the way her lips shot out rhyme as if the words were bullets— her tongue the trigger.

She was like a loaded spring, packed with energy and he felt sorry for the person who inspired the work she performed that night.

The first poem was fueled by anger and rage, he could see it in her step, hear it when she quickly gasped for air in order to deliver the next line. The second poem was just as powerful as the first but for an entirely different reason. He saw the tears welling up in her eyes, noted the spit bubbling in the corners of , the tremor in her voice as she progressed.

She was dynamic. She couldn’t be anything but when she wrote like she did, performed like she did, felt like she did.

When she finished he felt didn’t know what to do with himself. He felt restless and lethargic at the same time, he felt like getting up and going to find her backstage. He wanted to say something — anything, but he stayed in his seat. 

Before they met, he had thought of himself as an intelligent person. He could clearly articulate his thoughts and feelings, he had never thought of himself as a writer, or a poet. Though after they met — that was a different story. 

She made him question himself.

She made him think.

She made him regret.

She made him nervous.

She made him sad.

She made him happy.

...

He found himself missing her.