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,
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.