I think it’s okay for me to sit and write and play,
pretend that I’m in love with him
and imagine a pretty future wherein
we’re never apart.
I mean, pretending’s okay
because it’s not like I’m ever gonna actually say
hello or hold his hand or kiss that face,
so pretending’s not all too out of place,
And as long as I pretend -then I’ll pretend talk to him
and we’ll get along and he’ll be my friend
and we’ll have coffee and tea
and go swim in the sea together.
He’ll say “You know, it’d be nice to go on a walk”
and I’d agree and we’d talk
while we mozied through the woods,
hand and hand, like litte red riding hoods,
except there’d be no wolf, and we’d just enjoy visiting grandmother.
Then one day he’d take my hand
and kneel upon one knee in the sand
and he’d look in my eyes and pull out a ring
and open his mouth and begin to sing
an epic love poem, over four stanzas long,
and then, at the very end of his song,
he’d pause for a moment, breathe and then sigh,
“Marry me please, and make me the happiest guy
on earth,” and I’d scream “Yes!” and I’d shout
and I’d dance all about
and I’d give him a hug
and we’d always be in love,
forever and ever, and we’d have sixteen kids
and all while we lived
we’d be the happiest couple ever seen
in this world or any planet in between.
Yes…It’s probably okay for me to sit and pretend that way.