...The story of a girl in London, England


Sonnet 32


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.

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