you smiled at me from across a packed concert hall.
the moshing had not yet begun.
i couldn't be sure it was me you were smiling at, but i was up against the wall and standing beside no one.
you beckon and i look away. you come through the crowd.
you're voice was indescribable. better than the opening band anyway.
we eased through conversation, and i do what you ask, writing ten digits on the back of your hand in black eyeliner borrowed from a friend, hoping they won't wear off in the chaos.
the band we all came to see comes out and a familiar piece begins. we get lost in the mosh pit together, hoping to not get separated. it's a feat considerably harder than getting the nerve to write my number on your hand.