Fine Taste

Clearing our schedules, the evening becomes gluttonous.

Aged cheese with french imported wine. 

You kneel down and what I dread most, 

you propose with a toast. 

This is not how I imagined it to be like. 

I always thought you'd climb up my window and steal me in the night. 

Thought you would take me on a ride through the meadows, 

soaking in the beaming sunlight.

But that night, you sucked all the air out of the room

with your anxious fingers and hurried speech.

"Will you marry me."

Silence, why is it so silent?

I'd rather close my eyelids than study the fear on your face.

You were considerate and chose a quite place.

What a waste, what a waste.