romantic comedy

it is winter.
outside, it is snowing
big, wet, lazy snowflakes,
and i have just stoked the wood stove
and curled up beneath
my mother's yoga blanket.

i am watching one of those old
and familiar romantic comedies
of the late nineties or early aughts,
in which,
with disarming smiles and charm and wit,
meg ryan and tom hanks banter and bicker
and write love letters to strangers.

i miss those days,
when in naive wonder i really believed
that love would be like the movies
and romance would be filled with
clever quips and comedy
and accompanied by a soundtrack
of simple piano or quirky indie hits.
despite the comedic timing of
miscommunications and missed connections,
and the requisite challenge that must be overcome,
love would always end with a kiss in central park
or the meeting of hands
on the roof of the empire state building.