Tinder.

A contemporary sonnet.

He was taller than his profile picture;
I was sweatier than mine. He stood by
Lush, I approached late; in a rush. He caught
one glimpse of my sweaty head and pulled out

his note book; unfazed �" fanned my face. We walked
The river's length with ease, discussed Mark Twain �"
Shakespeare �" his mistrust of sunflowers and that
which constitutes abuse during a suit fitting.

Awkwardly, he asked after each member
of my family �" all dead. When he listed
my Dad �" I lied; said he was still alive �"
I just couldn't do it to him again.

I ran home at nine; called my friend; told her:
I never wanted to be without him.

(She said I probably shouldn’t tell him that yet.)