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.