Table for One

“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-

Known.
I am Known here.

Loved even.

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.

Each
plotting-
scheming.

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.

Unknown-
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.