Poet of the Smiles

I step on the escalator, my eyes searching for him.

There he is.

I smile after spotting him finally, fighting hard the urge to hurry up on the annoyingly slow escalator and fling my arms around him.

When our eyes meet, he smiles, like sun-rays breaking out from clouds on a foggy morning.

The world stops for a moment for me.

It's hard to tell whether his lips smile first or the eyes.
But it's easy to notice even from that distance (and even when his eyes have gone squinty with an ear to ear smile), the sparkle in them.

Oh, I know the look. It reminds me of many things.

Of leaves of Mimosa plant that curl gently on touch to the utter amusement of my childhood self.
Of children's joy when their paper-boats float in rainwater.
Of early morning dew on Prajakta flowers that strew the damp red soil in the yard.

"What?" He asks sheepishly when I step out.

"I could be dead now if smiles could kill."

I can compose a series of poetry on the smile that follows next.