By Candlelight

Their table is fragrant
with a spray of deep
red roses. As they wait
for the entrée, their hands
for the moment out of view,

they fondle the white linen
tablecloth. Droplets swell,
sponge the light, wobble,
slide down the stems, and pool
on the feet of their goblets.

They speak in hushed tones,
their breath musky,
redolent of burgundy.
Dinner is served.
As they slice, fork,

bite into a piece
of rare steak, and look up,
each sees the candle flame
flicker in the glazed,
expectant eyes of the other.

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