I used to write/
romantic sonnets to her./
In my verse she’d delight/
(though she was slightly older).
We’d share our sad tales/
of our romances gone awry,/
and her I’d regale/
and flirt: “Could I be your guy?”
She then said there was someone/
and the last time we met,/
she expressed hopes for eventual love/
as I spun her in pirouette.
Today the news came; there will be no more dancing!/
She’s taken his name! I’ll cease my romancing!
*(I don’t want her to swoon
on her honeymoon.)
