Dear Jane

I'm afraid I've become a hopeless romantic.

When I wake up, the first thought
to enter my head is the question of whether
or not I will meet "the one" today while
I work- perhaps a customer, or a new employee,
or maybe even someone that I pass on the
street will chance to glace up and gaze into my
eyes, and in that instant the both of us will know
absolutely that we are meant for each other,
and a desperate search for one another's names,
phone numbers, e-mails, social media profiles,
will immediately ensue, and we will live happily ever after.

I'm afraid I've become a hopeless romantic.

When I ought to be working diligently at filing papers,
my mind begins to wander and daydream about
the perfect first date, how his eyes will sparkle
in a perfectly pure and happy and loving way in the
romantic candlelight of the Italian restaurant,
under the white lights of a swing dancing studio,
with tiny tan flecks of clay splattered across his cheek
from a malformed vase he jokingly gives to me as
a Christmas gift that sits on my kitchen counter
in all its warped and contorted glory.

I'm afraid I've become a hopeless romantic.

When I read about Elizabeth, Jane, Anne, Fanny,
Catherine, Eleanor, Marianne, Emma-
my heart seems to beat wildly in my chest in
exultation when each of these beloved heroines unites
in matrimony with their undisputably true loves,
and longs, at the same time, for just such a relationship
that will sweep me off my feet in good taste, a sweet
disposition to do good, a perfect sensibility to social relations,
and an enduring love that will bind us together
for as long as we ever shall be here-