The English Woman

The air smells like coffee and city grit
as I wait for you,
trying to busy myself with letters-
letters I will never send
to people I will never know
written on fancy paper
bright and immaculate-
an interesting juxtaposition
against this backdrop
of a notebook
precariously balanced on my knees
and the sidewalk that sparkles
beneath the dirt
and grime
and gum
that all survive the rain
and the wind
and the snow
and the more and more people.
But you arrive and I remember me-
no longer lost
in the stories these sidewalks have to tell-
and we walk
away and off the grid
to where the city runs into,
around,
over itself,
to that cafe I can never find
unless you're with me.
We sit,
over coffee and a shared sandwich-
you tell me that you think-
as many others also do-
that it seems I love you.
I don't.
I'm sorry,
but it's true.
What you see as my attraction for you
is only admiration
and awe
and a sincere interest in what you say.
And you laugh,
and blush,
and look away-
stammering.
I do not want to be your lover,
I'm perfectly content as your colleague.
I do not require your love-
or even your affection.
I only desire to talk with you more
and more and more
about Charlotte,
Anne,
Emily,
and George-
and our shared adoration
of these remarkable women.