I, chilled, snuggle with/
a cold lavender pillow./
I wish it was you.

Here I lay, hand where/
it shouldn’t be, dreaming and/
hoping you will call.

To a woman I don’t know,
who is in sorrow:
I wanted this night
to be different;
to end right,
but that’s not how it went.

Instead of going dancing,
with a woman of much hope,
there was no romancing,
and I feel like a dope.

She didn’t have a Benz,
nor hair of blonde.
The similarity ends,
and I’m certain I could be more fond
of you
than she
of me.
Silly, I know,
to compare or connect
our sorrows;
our wrecks.

I guess I want to say “You’re not alone
in sorrow.” That’s why I wrote this poem.

She, from a cold and/
forbidding place, still opens/
my heart and warms me.

To send a photo/
au Natural, then not care/
is fair but not fair.

My funny comment/
on what you gave up for Lent/
was, alas, not sent.

Would it still chill thee/
to hear me say that you thrill/
me in many ways?

If i do/
not marry U,/
can i ask U out?/

If I resist/
nuptual bliss,/
could we scream and shout?/

I think dancing/
and romancing/
could be fun/
with the right some1!

Missed the chance to dance/
with my intellectual/
banter buddy. Sad.

I’ve seen women who/
hang out. You are in too good/
of shape to do that.