I have a way of over doing things.

Turning every friendly word, into a movie scene. 

Locking eyes across a crowded room,

Leads to credits rolling in my head.

No, this time I swear I felt electricity! 

I argue–– near dead,

‘twas a fork in the outlet, 

(for dramatic effect)

Lovesick fool or a self made prophet?

I’ll sooner break the washing machine,

With every bus ticket and old receipt,

I keep in my pocket; 

Convinced it will forever remind me, 

Of a day I would surely (never) forget.

Really you both just stepped left,

Because of a sign––

But one of traffic, nothing cosmic.

And you’re right there was something in her eye,

But it wasn’t a sparkle, her contacts–– simply dry.

He smiled back, sure, but you smiled first.

Here I land again, with my feelings hurt.

Over a story I wrote out of fiction.

But I’ll go dancing and let it happen again.

A true romantic will never need a real hobby. 

I’ll keep skipping down the street,

I’ll keep waiting for eyes to meet,

Write songs about being weak in the knees––

See to repress it would only make matters worse.

Romanticism; both blessing and curse. 

Took our “could be’s” to the alter,

They left in a hearse.