And Tuesday came,
still undecided like ever.
A perfect date only happens in July.
We sought one
& I ended up at 37 Elm Street.
Slow jazz in the background,
old Italian-styled ambiance,
with service in Queen's English.
Although weary and starved,
easily I waited.
Then I went upstairs,
an hour & a few swung by,
eventually you came by.
Dazzled by the smile you had on,
I made that hug awkward.
We hobnobbed until we forgot
the menu and people around.
As empty was my stomach,
your happiness made me stuffed.
Our body spoke a language
the people did not understand.
Forever we longed an evening date
with candles lit at the rooftop patio,
that even with the rushing wind
accompanied by a singing rain,
the heavens saved the date with the terrace.
Oh what an euphoric night it was,
that you forgot with me your purse.
Yet we spent hours in your car,
rubbing our lips at my facade.
Lips to lips,
hands on your slender waist,
then behind your neck.
It was a movie
until our teeth jammed,
then our eyes opened
to behold my landlord peeping,
concluding date number thirteen.
Fate had led us this far,
but little was known,
my best date will be our third last.
Many dates I have been to,
but the best of them were all with you.
All the shared emotions & times
archived in my heart.
Even perfect stories have an end.
Although ours was only 50 pages long,
you were the best I never had.
I knew you would break my heart,
but prayed for disappointment.
I still suffer because I lost you,
but I would suffer the most if I had you.
You had my soul and heart in a platter.
You were like Donatello.
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