I was just nine - you caught my eye,
you stunned me with your smile.
I stood with friends when you swayed by,
I thought of you a while.
You were thirteen and looked to me
like...well...you had it all.
You wore your skirt above the knee
and rolled your hips - a Doll!
My love for you stayed classified,
I kept this secret for five years,
when in a school bicycle ride
your chain came off the gears.
I flew to you, with flailing arms,
discouraged other helpers.
My brain had triggered two alarms
'bout horny little yelpers.
You stabilised the bicycle,
I fiddled with the stupid chain.
Your hand touched mine - an icicle-
remained there, yes, that hint was plain.
A date? My mother asked
with mock surprise.
At 14, are you growing up?
And then she told me
words so stern and wise
and said that dating now
would be a real flop.
She was right, we stayed
until the curfew.
Talked about, well...mostly German Lit.,
and when there were just 15 minutes left
I tell you,
I held her hand
and squeezed a little bit.
Well, it was the obvious dilemma,
on one hand here was Brigitte,
she was so much cuter than
my classmate Emma.
I had good taste but I was just a midget!
Brigitte then accepted our bond,
over decades we did keep in touch.
Crucial learnings our kinship spawned
even though we didn't
hold each other much.
And today I am not sad.
When I think of her I miss her.
Only, sometimes do I wonder
why in all these years and decades
I just never had the guts to kiss her.
I still remember
looking at her hips,
but never ever
did we even talk about our lips.