What sort of day will this be?

A stretch under the covers brings a cramp to my feet

and the thought of walking down all the streets

wondering who I have left to meet

makes me want to run backwards

to last night

when we talked

and hid in the dark

and I felt your lips on my face

whispering the craziest things

and I took them all to heart.

I see us in a cafe.

You drinking iced tea and I have something more exotic

--maybe it has whipped cream--

and soaking is a biscotti.

Then I look at you, you look at me.

What sort of day will this be?

They'll whisper to their tablemates

and look at us wistfully.

'Look how happy those two are--how comfortable they must be.'

They'll wonder what we talk about

what we like to eat.

They'll wonder the names of the films we watch

and if we watch TV.

I'll wake up with you tomorrow--

--yesterday it's what I thought

and when you smiled and kissed my ear

I believed in what I thought.

But time moved in

and I shied away

'Who knows just what he'll think of a girl like me,

Imagining,

drinking exotic coffee.'

When I see you again

I'll smile twice.

I owe you an apology.

You should see

how it will be

when I see you

next week.