The Dress

She only wears it once a year.

That red dress-his favorite.

The ones she twirls in, laughing,

as he pretends to hate dancing.

Tonight, he fixes his tie twice,

straightens the time-

he doesn't want to be late,

The restaurant is dimly lit,

soft music hums around him.

Two menus, two glasses of wine.

His fingers trace the empty seat.

She always said, "don't be late."

He smiles, whispers,

"I made it on time this year."

And as he lifts his glass to toast,

he watches his reflection in the window,

alone, but still waiting.

Outside, the city moves on,

but he stays, just for a little longer.