Poetry by Peter Houle

“You two would be perfect together!” my married friends repeated
to both of us, at least a couple of times.

She had double majored, taught painting and ceramics.
I didn’t mind she was bi, 2 years older, or had a pair of cats.

So Diana and I met on 2-for-1 margarita night,
followed by Dos Equis over dinner and dessert.

Following our 2nd date, we joined, then went back for seconds.
Together, we gave, we received, we shared, we had met our match.

Sweetly shy about her slightly asymmetrical breasts,
I loved them twice as much over the next two months.

In a flash, the season turned its page; alone, I drove myself to school.
In my single room, I thought of her, all the time, at first.

She sent me an original painting of hers, of uniquely colored rings.
I mailed her a one-of-a-kind sculpture of a sax soloist, black on white.

She visited me once, and I, her, a separate time.
Maybe I gave less, or took from her more selfishly.

Only one in my field could receive a full grant, I had to work non-stop.
I couldn’t spend a single selfless hour a day, on such a lovely individual as she.

Personally, I think she tired of her one-way efforts, singing to herself, unanswered.
No longer single, she posts happy selfies day and night; I write lonesome 1am poetry.

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