I think about you now and then:
The opera singer
And—
No, you'd hate
Hate
To be called that
(Though once you might've loved it)—
How I'll never know the person
You might have one day been.
The girl that would have loved
To sing.
I remember the waiter,
And your indignation.
How you demanded we go out
To another fancy restaurant,
That could afford to pay a waitstaff
Who could conceal their prejudice.
I thought it was cute, the way you pretended
You wouldn't order
What you wanted.
But you ask for what you want.
What a dream.
For that,
And that alone,
You will always be too good for me.