Oh good, if Crichton's face is close enough for nose smashing, it's close enough for Arthur to cup his cheek and pull him into a long and loving kiss. There: that's what he thinks of your poem.

When they break apart, Arthur confesses wryly: "Well. I'm afraid that my gift for you is- is going to seem terribly unoriginal, now."

(Three guesses what it is, and the first two don't count.)