I wrote this poem for class. Since it's about romance, I figured I would post it during Valentine's Day week. You can read my other two sestina poems here and here. I hope you like it!
The napkin beneath her glass was damp.
The rim was gold like warm honey
And there was a lipstick smudge in bright red.
Her reverie was broken by a waiter’s accident;
Glass shattering, gasps, his body falling like a stone.
That was when she knew there would be no night of magic
No smiles, no laughs, no walk outside, no magic.
She looked toward the door, her palms damp,
Her stomach feeling as heavy as a stone.
Least he could do was text: “Gonna be late, honey.”
But maybe it wasn’t his fault, maybe there was an accident,
And now his blood painted the concrete red.
She shouldn’t kid herself. She wiped away her red
Lipstick on an ivory napkin, wishing she could magic
Herself away from the waiter’s sympathetic stares. Accident
Or not, she shouldn’t stay. The waiter’s shirt was damp.
He leaned over and asked, “You alright, honey?”
His eyes were dark gray, the color of stone.
“I’m fine, thanks.” Her voice was hard, like stone.
Embarrassed, she turned away, her cheeks red.
Across the room, a man with hair the color of honey
Sat alone, checking his watch. Clearly no magic
Had come to either of them tonight. She blinked away damp
Eyes; no “oh, it’s just an eyelash” accident.
No more waiting, no more lost time, no accident.
Uncertain and nervous, she forced herself to be strong, a stone,
As she got up and walked across the room, her palms damp.
Her black dress rustled, his skinny tie was dark red.
He looked up and she knew there was hope for magic.
“I saw you sitting alone.” “Please sit.” His voice was like honey.
She was relieved he didn’t call her honey.
Maybe waiting tonight hadn’t been an accident.
Maybe it had been luck or fate or magic.
Though it was a chance encounter and nothing was set in stone,
They smiled til it hurt and laughed til their cheeks turned red
And stayed til the rain stopped and the ground was just damp.
They walked on stone. The streetlamps glowed a honey
Color on this damp night. “Not everything is an accident,”
He said, smiling, cheeks red from the cold. “It’s magic.”
What do you think?