“I loved her; I was sorry not to have had the time and the inspiration to insult her, to hurt her, to force her to keep some memory of me.”
― Marcel Proust
It was a lovely wedding reception.
Open bars always are-
I am Known here.
If only I could feel it.
If I could sit alone I would,
but this is a wedding.
There is only one girl worth talking too here,
but not because of beauty. No-
But because she has never met me.
The real me anyway.
She's met many versions of me.
Each version trying so hard to be clever.
I want her to know my love,
even if can never feel hers.
I want her to know something true.
Amid the failed plots and crooked schemes-
My love is true.
the last true thing about me.
It is what I deny all women, and myself.
I am unknown here.
There is only one chair worth sitting in.
I wait the whole night.
Waiting for the
Courage, to be decent.
She has never met the real me.
(As I fear I've never met him either)
The seat next to her opens.
I sit, and introduce myself.
Decent, just be decent.
You can always blame it on the alcohol later.