I’m in bed by 11 and Rhapsody in Blue makes me cry.
I prefer Mozart and a glass of Cab Sav to just about anything.
I go for demure, yet occasionally shocking to people who don’t know me well.
Racy jokes make me blush and amorous attention makes me uncomfortable.
I would wear a ball gown every day if I could,
but I’d stand around smoking a cigarette, too.
There is no sense of false advertising where I am concerned.
I’m a little crazy and I’ll admit it right out.
I don’t need you under any spell, even though I find
that seems to happen more often than I’d like.
I don’t plan to change for you and I wouldn’t ask the same.
I might be complicated but that doesn’t mean that we have to be.
You make it difficult on purpose so the blame places easier later on.
And you know something? That really is quite sad.
But I will wake up tomorrow and go to work, a job
which I get paid pretty decent money to do, thank you very much.
I’ll queue up the Rachmaninov radio station and daydream
about the glass of wine I’m going to have after work and
by the time it is time to pour that drink, I’ll have forgotten
your name and all the ways you tried to
turn what I am into the wrong thing to be.
I see myself for what I am, you understand.
I can certainly see the difficulty involved
in being with a woman who runs around
in ballgowns and sings along to the
opera being performed onstage.
I don’t apologize for anything,
least of which the strange
concoction of moments and
memories that make up
what I’ve become.
Those are the kinds of things
people are supposed to be
fascinated by, anyhow,
in this race to find the
person you’re supposed
to be waking up next to.
But there’s an empty
wine glass and a
pack of cigarettes
on my bedside table
and I have no regrets.
Apparently, I’m in a relationship with nicotine, grapes, and classical music…