It was with a sharp snicker
that I remembered some
of my clumsier romantic
Those times I tried to be
the dashing movie star but
only succeeded in being the
bumbling best friend.
I cringed at my memories
of awkward kisses, uncomfortable
hand holding, feet sweeping and
poorly timed passions.
I am not suave. I lack the guile
of the classic beau of cinema.
I get nervous and sweat rather than
confidently swoop in for the kiss.
I chuckle at my embarrassments,
and wonder how it is I got as far as
I have in situations where my awkwardness
wasn’t a detriment, but a charming plus.
Maybe twice. Three times max. When
my fumbling was cute, adorable, and even
a little sexy. God bless the women that thought
so. I appreciate their charity.
I’m a rumpled and wrinkled shirt in a
see of finely pressed cottons, trying
to iron with my hands and smile sweetly,
as I am judged by lips I’ll never kiss.
I shook my head as these thoughts
played with my sleepless mind, in a lonely
Sunday bed. I’m just fine. She’ll like my
awkwardness, because that’s me.
And maybe she’ll be an awkward kisser too,
and maybe we’ll have awkward kids who’ll
go on to have awkward loves of
She’ll like me. And I’ll like her.
I took some comfort in the thought,
my wry smile fading from my face,
as I finally settled into sleep.