You reach across the table for my hand
And trying not to flinch, I leave it limp.
You slide between my fingers, hanging bland—
Discreetly I retrieve it, picking shrimp
Apart upon my empty plate. I hate
To lie to you, so focused, so uncouth.
And yet I hate to tell it to you straight.
I shiver step my way around the truth:
What ever I have felt for you is gone.
It melted with the snow, faded like mist.
It dissipated somewhere, in the throng
Of faces I have never kissed. And this
Is less than fair, but really, who’s to blame?You’ll feel it soon enough, this cuckold shame.