This Is Nothing Special:

You and I took the train to Boston with our friends

and we drank wine on the way there

and on the way back.

It was a Sunday and we went to the museum;

and you never cared for art--

but you found something little in you that time

(maybe it was just for me).

We went to the little Italian restaurant where the 

waiter asked if I was Ukrainian, and I said:

"You're actually not the first to ask."

(you called me your Ukrainian princess from then on)

Then our friends left because they were tired.

We then went to the Italian café that serves gelato and coffee

and treats customers like they're supposed to.

We kissed with cappuccino foam on our lips;

and then walked around the Commons 

so we could hear the fall flowers hum.

We took the train home once again,

then a cab from the station

(in which I fell asleep upon your lap).

These memories last, but their blood washes away with the Monday rain.