i’m sorry that i won’t know you
as you know me; that we won’t
share bits of each other over
red wine and cheese, candles
and entrees we both laugh
when trying to pronounce.
i’m sorry i won’t sneak my hand
into yours under the table,
catch your eyes with mine and
hold my breath until you look
away.
i’m sorry we won’t walk home
after dinner, because my place
is down the block, and we
won’t get a chance to hear the
violinist change to something
romantic, that i won’t buy you
that handmade rose from the
man that winks as we pass.
i’m sorry that this won’t be me,
but can you blame me for
being jealous of who it gets
to be?




