But of the Butts

"O Joe, you know I like you:  
this has been lovely,  
but..."  

I waited for her  
to complete her thought,  
but she left the 'but'  
suspended enticingly 
over my sea of anticipation.  

I wasn't despondent:  
it was one of those ambiguities  
the nights are known for.  

With proper philosophical gravity  
I dismissed the unease:  
"My dear lady, fret not,  
the 'buts' are but an exciting start."  

No sooner my words came out
her hands started feeling herself all over;
I gawked.
Did my words carry 
such aphrodisiac power?
Was this turning out to be
an instance of intellectual copulation?

It never entered my befuddled mind,
she was ascertaining wardrobe malfunction.

Yet, with eyes hard like stones,  
brows furrowed,  
she stormed out,  
leaving behind the acrid fume of  
unlovely sentiments:  
"Keep dreaming of my butt,  
it's not going to come out  
for you... ever."  

Now I chide myself:  
how did I lose to a mere 
presence or absence of a 't',
with an intellect 
so vast?