I think that there’s a chance
And even admitting that makes me queasy
I mean, me: eternal pessimist
Keeper of the temple of broken dreams
And hearts to boot. It’s impossible
The math must be wrong, the calculations
Faulty. The results are mistaken.
I am not. I cannot. There’s no way at all.
I refuse to believe I’m in love.
Bring your fork up to your mouth.
Eat slowly, savoring each bite.
I’ll sit here smiling, adoringly,
Trying with all my might not to cry
The pain fills my chest. I’ll do my best
To hide it as you refill your fork
Back to your mouth, another
Mouthful. You must love the dish
It’s only the best for you, darling.
This recipe is all mine, one of a kind
I worked hard, hoping you’d find
It delicious. I was right. You
Look at me, and ask, oh so casually,
What it is that you’re devouring.
The answer might surprise you dear.
It’s my heart.