“So, how’d it go?”
“Good.  Really good… I thought.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s been a week since we hung out.”

“Did he pay for dinner?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he say he’d call?”
“Yeah.”
“Was there a kiss?”
“Yeah.”

“So, that’s a good sign!”
“That’s what I thought.  This is so frustrating.”
“What’s the matter with you?  Don’t you know? --
The longer they wait to text you,
the more they like you.”

I thought your poem was really sweet,
but
I just don’t think of you that way.

Honestly, sometimes it’s too much:
the endless proclamations,
and the incessant compliments.
Maybe if you were more like Paul --

We got dinner the other night,
Applebees’ Ultimate Trio.
Not once did he
hold a door
or offer to pay.
He didn’t compare me
to the sun,
or the stars,
or anything else for that matter.
He just said,
“You’re ******* hot.”
So we went to his place.

You’re silly in your New Year’s hat,
Covered in confetti and blue eye shadow:
One hand at your nose, half mocking, half waving,
But I’ve never seen you look so pretty.

You’re missing the dark circles,
And the lines around your mouth,
And your walnut colored hair,
Lacks the brassy hue I’ll inherit.

Behind you, an old man holds a little girl,
Showing off her Winnie the Pooh feety pajamas.
Her brother was put to bed hours ago,
But she doesn’t want to miss a thing.

Suddenly, it might be Saturday morning,
Bowie’s on, and you’re dancing.
That little girl is watching you,
And you’ve forgotten to be self-conscious.

It takes a minute
To recognize,
Until you stepped in,
This was a picture of me.