last night I penned our first poem
it was in thoughts after my laptop died
and I'd resigned to turning in my mind
there was no ink
it was fleeting hazy thoughts
inspirations becoming dreams
that composed our first poem
it was wonderful metaphors
and peaceful imagery
I was not scheming to construct
an instrument for ensnaring you
I was only celebrating:
tiny party balloons
which floated me to sleep
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
essays on love, part 3
Giving trust to someone you wish to receive it from should not be so difficult. There is a difference between knowing how you feel about someone and living that emotion. I remember the Saturday afternoons I spent in tense anticipation of having dinner with her. I remember the build up to Friday evenings and the let down when she would pause, kiss me quick, and turn out the door without a hint of looking back. I remember the text message admission that she didn't want "any of this" or to see "anyone right now". What sort of foundation is that for honesty?
When I ran into her a month after breaking up, I was overcome with a realization that I missed her. Her response when I told her was that she didn't know what to do with me, but she really didn't know what to do with herself. I had stood in calm appreciation of the beauty of her face, unable to express however I was thinking. Her dark hair and glasses were prettier than I could've painted, given a brush and the talent to do so. And she was mine, though looking back it's more of a fisherman's tale than a believable reality. Our courtship was a challenge, trying to crack the shell of her defensive, distant attitude. It took me too long to ask, 'what could I stand for?'
She texted me about a month ago, saying that "(she) was an idiot for pushing (me) away." She had not realized our issue was her refusal to open herself up. I turned to the girl I was sitting next to and read her the text. I was not afraid to say, "I don't want her back." When the two of them met recently, I knew a happiness in standing next to someone that she never provided me. When she asked me how I was doing, I absolutely froze. There was no way I knew how to convey to her how great my life had been since I began forgetting her.
When I ran into her a month after breaking up, I was overcome with a realization that I missed her. Her response when I told her was that she didn't know what to do with me, but she really didn't know what to do with herself. I had stood in calm appreciation of the beauty of her face, unable to express however I was thinking. Her dark hair and glasses were prettier than I could've painted, given a brush and the talent to do so. And she was mine, though looking back it's more of a fisherman's tale than a believable reality. Our courtship was a challenge, trying to crack the shell of her defensive, distant attitude. It took me too long to ask, 'what could I stand for?'
She texted me about a month ago, saying that "(she) was an idiot for pushing (me) away." She had not realized our issue was her refusal to open herself up. I turned to the girl I was sitting next to and read her the text. I was not afraid to say, "I don't want her back." When the two of them met recently, I knew a happiness in standing next to someone that she never provided me. When she asked me how I was doing, I absolutely froze. There was no way I knew how to convey to her how great my life had been since I began forgetting her.
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