A waiter writes a poem in a French restaurant

I am only a toothpick that never gets a kiss from your sherry lips.
I am only a serviette Mademoiselle,
You wipe your golden fingers and throw away.
I am only a firefly in your chandelier room of heart
And really I am a fool who cries for the Moon in daylight.

*To the moths where they fly at night and burn with flames.