Ballad

 You looked at me, and I, at you. 
 On Tuesday we shared a table for two. 
 Over the river and through the bottles,
 we shared old stories and our favorite novels.
 I'm Miller on the Seine, writing my fiction.
 Your Sylvia Plath without the affliction. 
 
 We weighed out the cost, it seems, 
 of bending over backwards only to stare at our feet.
 The past carries waves, the futures painted in grays. 
 But still I'd wait for you.  

^{December 2020}