I think about it
all day.
Spaghetti dinner.
I like it . . .
that's not why I'm going.

You are.
You'll be there.
I want to see you
so badly.

I think.

Even after what happened
Saturday night.
Even after
you broke my heart
by expressing interest
in my older
prettier
sister.

Even after
the letter I wrote you
that night.
It was nasty.
I was angry.
I didn't send it.
I never send you
the letters addressed
to your name.

You don't know.
Well, maybe you do.
But not officially.
I haven't told you.

Nowadays people are
imperceptive.
Even Psychology majors.

You have to be told
or it's not
real.

But it's still real
to me.

Spaghetti dinner.

I play it in my mind.
You'll sit by me.
We'll talk like
friends.
I'll feel
accepted.

That's all I want from you
for now.
God, I hope you'll sit by me.

Ironic.
Spaghetti dinner.

If you sit by me,
I won't be able to eat.
My high-school health teacher
told me:
"Your stomach can't tell
the difference
between love
and food."
It's the only thing
he ever said
that was true.

Skip the spaghetti.
I want you.
If you'll sit by me . . .

You don't.
The day-dream ends.
I get stuck with
Spaghetti.