In Your Accent

Free verse poem.

Your words were hard and heavy,
as were my drinks last night.
I remember almost everything you said to me.
I got the gist, at least.
I remember how you said every last syllable.
I got a delighted earful.
Oh, how you said those syllables.
Oh, how you smothered them
in your "I'm not that interesting. Really, I'm just a guy" French accent.

For hours, I listened to you.
I managed to get your life story.
You must've been comfortable with me.
I spewed out thoughts about politics and movies.
You never mentioned a girlfriend or anyone who'd be waiting up for you.
I didn't have a drink while we talked, not one,
neither did you, but I was drunk all night,
your accent was giving me such a high.
You told me you liked Frank Sinatra,
I replied, My favorite song of his is Fly me to the Moon.
I should have taken your hand right there and said, Come fly with me!
For all the things I said last night, I wouldn't have said No.
Not once, if you had asked, if you had suggested
in your "She's still talking to me, I should make a move" French accent.


But your friend wanted to go home, and I never got a chance to suggest.
You could have been reading my mind.
I think you were, or at least you were reading my body,
I was an open book last night,
asking for someone to finger my spine and pages.
You looked reluctant to go.
But you did. 
I watched you leave, I waved goodbye in my little black dress.
Standing in the doorway, watching me get another drink,
you said goodbye
in your "He's not my friend. I'm gonna kick his a*s later" French accent.