I'm wishing. And thinking. And dreaming of you. You step out of the background, when I'm weary and wanting, to offer your hand. And your heart. And your lips. And everything else. And I'm crying. I'm weeping. I'm seeing your face, but know it's a long ago flashback. My dream is some other guy's reality. You holding his hand. Sharing each other's secrets. Having the same wishes for the future. Making love. I've seen the scene. I've lived the movie. Each time the lights go up as the curtain comes down, I'm alone, no one around. I shuffle out the exit, searching for an entrance. Wanting to make my own movie with you. But the script changed a long time ago. Pages were cut from the final draft. Didn't matter anyway, anymore, I'd have been left on the cutting room floor. It's yours and his film, and I'm no more than a lonely man sitting in the balcony, watching your life with another guy, wishing I'd been somewhere in the credits, hoping I'd be the start in the sequel. But there's not going to be a sequel, and I'm not movie star. I'm just a guy in love with a girl. Watching from afar. Wishing...
Alfred C. Martino
Updates from everyday life as seen by me