Fantasy

It might have started as a number, look, a thought, a time
But looks and thoughts are not enough for me to pen this rhyme.
It had begun not long ago, and yet forever still
When she herself, a flower dear, once more beheld that thrill.
Perhaps the Facebook pictures did solidify his lure;
Perhaps their similarity's what made her so demure.
Was it the coinciding— his eleven and her ten?
The sweetness of his quiet grin that caught affection then?
At any rate, that matters not; the point is that she's his
And she has reason to believe that, maybe, hers he is.
There was communion hid between separate conversations,
Their soft, shy smiles meeting in perfect combinations.
Now filled with wonder, brilliant hope, she studied him still more;
And now is where invention enters our romantic lore.
(That's not to say that this won't happen, only that it's not;
And in the past, predictions apt have true events begot.)
So we shall say, my reader dear, that one day it was shown
And both parties therein involved made their affections known.
Which one of them it was who ended their hearts' secrecy
I cannot say or guess; I can't complete my prophecy.
At any rate, it became known. She fairly died of joy
To know that precious looks and grins had not been just a ploy.
While he was faithful, she was more, and never had they felt
Such loving adoration as to make hardest hearts melt.
Such love was theirs that even skeptic friends did then believe
That such a thing as love exists and could all wounds relieve.
Together staying, year on year, they never failed to prove
That love is not always a lie, and sometimes it can soothe.
And now it ends, my darling dears; here ends our symphony
He's there for her, her one and only, dearest Anthony.