it’s three am when
you finally decide that
it’s time for us to leave, and
you flee to the foyer, muttering something
about coats, and the temperature,
and how you hate saying goodbye.
so i make the customary rounds
around the room with the half hugs,
and the weary waves, and the slight smiles.
i can hear your foot tapping on the stone floor,
and i know how you hate to be kept waiting.
i have one foot in the foyer when a voice cries: “wait!”
and i turn around to find a gaggle of girls,
with beaming eyes and silly, shy smiles.
“you looked so beautiful tonight,” one girl gushes,
and all the others nod their heads.
i blush.
“i’ve never been called beautiful before,” i reply.
(it’s a lie, but i don’t think that anybody noticed)
we begin to talk about looks, and high school insecuritites,
and prom-night promiscuousness, and all the while
i can feel your eyes on the back of my head.
“let’s go,” you sigh, and i utter my last goodbye.
i grab my purse, and you grab my wrist,
and turn me around to face you.
you’re staring at me like i’m a piece of artwork
in one of those museums you like to frequent,
and part of me thinks that you’ve never
really looked at me until right now.
your eyes cast down to gaze at the floor,
and you whisper, “ you were beautiful tonight.”
you turn the doorknob, and
we’re out of house in a flash,
running toward your green camaro, and
we’re moving so fast that i can’t feel
the ground beneath my feet anymore
(i know you only said it ‘cause you
overheard me while you
were standing at the doorway,
but sometimes it’s nice to pretend
that you’re more in love with me
than you actually are)