Snickering to Sleep

It was with a sharp snicker

that I remembered some

of my clumsier romantic

moments.

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

their own.

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.