Ache

It was an old ache -
a rough reminder
she was not perfect,
a notch in his backbone
that creased his shirt
when he moved the wrong way.
There was a certain charm
about her face
and he liked how she could climb
when she had to
and how her spine lined up
perfectly
with his bookcase.
(But he wondered why
her jokes
bled into his flaws)
Still, he had to admit
she could
lean across a table
with a grace
that bordered on
godliness
and he could learn to believe
coincidence was

just a dying art.