That last time
Fiddling with his pasta
While the waiter hovered with the wine
He said it wasn’t working and we ought to part
That I made him feel inadequate.
He wasn’t an intellectual, he said
He never had that much to say
And what he had was not worth hearing.
When the pasta dropped off his fork
And splashed a shameful red all down his shirt.
I saw him for what he was, poor sod,
And so did he.
Cruel I had been and merciless
To try and make him into you.
For months he sensed your presence
Behind every innocent remark
Felt you lurking beween my lips
In the darkness of the night
Heard you listening to each stumbling inanity
Tying his tongue in even tighter knots.
Inside I howled with laughter and relief
And as he dabbed the stain I made a vow
I would have you…
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