Her Dinner Date

The table gleams between them.
The little distance gives them room
To their own thoughts
As fingers twist tentative knots.
She holds his hand and he holds hers.
The moonlight shines off of her skin
Into his eyes
As he admires the starlit skies.
The coffees steam between them.
She looks at him, his tilted chin
Wishing for love
From someone who sees only what’s above.
The café’s closing between them.
The waiter cleans tables and still he stares
And she wishes
To be there, not watching dirty dishes.
The night will never, ever end.
She’ll sit there, hoping against hope
That he’ll see her.

And he won’t.


About pasameerday

I haven't got a lot of time to keep you interested, so I'll be quick. I'm a writer from the UK, primarily of fantasy and sci-fi short stories, and occasionally of strange, nonsensical poetry. I like cats, the Sims, and pizza, and I go to sleep to the sound of a keyboard. I've been writing for my entire life; to be honest, I don't think I could ever bring myself to stop. I have a feeling I'm losing you, so I'll bring this to an end before you slowly start to back up, hoping I'll stop talking long enough for you to make a quick getaway. Wait... Where are you going? Hey! Wait! ... Stop!!
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