This was written about a time when I was young and rather romantic, falling in love with all the wrong sort of people. I sometimes wonder how I made it in to adulthood. But it was fun as I recall.

Because I am a guest at your table
one of many,
I cut my food into small pieces
using my knife and fork,
eat daintily
with refinement.

Because I know I am being watched
I do not gulp the blood red wine
like some one dying of thirst in a desert
but sip gently,
admire the glass, turn it in my hand,
appreciate the fine cut crystal.

Because I am sure someone would notice
I do not
touch your hand
though often on the crisp white cloth
it lies close enough to mine
to assume it wants to be touched.

Because I know that no one knows for sure
I say good night
and thank you
and let you kiss my hand
when all I want
is just to hug you close.


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