by Chris Farago.
Maybe just tonight I’d prefer
A platitude to a plaudit.
Tell me you’re the moon,
Forever in my orbit.
Don’t tell me I’m a good speller;
Tell me I cast a spell on you.
Let me be your Erato;
Let us have our pas de deux.
I’m your bread, your rose, your finely-aged wine,
Your pied-à-terre, your lune, your shine.
Tell me you will grow old, and I will grow old,
If not together,
At least at the same time.