I love to eat out,
but this was a different
type of meal,
a spiritual Feast, really,
and I longed to share it
with somebody I cared about,
someone who enjoyed the same cuisine
(or so i thought.)
I reached out to her
time
and time
again
but there was never
any response;
never
any indication
that she
was having
the same feelings.
At last,
as I waited for dessert,
(knowing she was not
going to partake,)
I realized
that she and I
were not looking
at the same menu.
I thought
that she might not even
be hungry.
Or that maybe
she might be eating out
elsewhere.
I learned,
again,
and was reminded,
again,
that the gut-wrenching feeling,
the butterflies,
in my stomach,
that familiar feeling
that had come around
for over a decade
was not caused by her,
nor by my hunger,
but was a result,
as it had been
so often in the past,
of my silliness,
my over-indulgent intensity.
So I asked for the check
and left.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 
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