St Andrew's Court-ship

Wire spaghettis the space between them,

fragrant with the sauce of love,

as music drips into one ear each.

Their heads keep time, stirring the air around them,

but hands season their conversation differently:

one gestures extravagantly, chopping and slicing

with bold sweeping movements pungent as curry;

the other is more measured, herb-subtle

fingers flicking in increments finer than shaved parmesan.

Differences don’t matter when you’re that much in tune.