10.16
This poem once told me,
“Write me.
Like a wronged convict.”
So as to not upset the lady,
I let my pen lead the way to her place
I knocked gently
So she knew I met her genuinely
The door cracked like knuckles as it opened
Her face looked like it never has
With what seemed to be complete ecstasy
She opened the screen door and gestured for me to enter
She smirked as I walked past
Her dimples made a semicolon amidst my sentences of greeting
Which would normally imply a pause but there was no hesitation
No one seems to know where to put semicolons anyway
Headed straight to her room
As though she knew the consequences of doing so
With not a drop of remorse
She stared ahead as though she was watching a reality TV show
I followed behind her like I was the producer
Switching the lights off as I passed each switch
Before I could say anything her clothes fell to the floor
Her curves taunted me like little school boys on a playground
My hands began to tingle with lust
She grabs my hand and places it on her chest to assure me she’s human
I flinch as I do every time my hand touches her casing
To think I am touching the largest human organ without a scalpel on hand
We did what I came to do
I wrote her
With such fury and passion
Used more metaphors and similes then ever before
My pen couldn’t keep up
Stray paper marks showed my needy side
She didn’t hold it against me that I left quickly
I bid her farewell without physical contact
As I drove the windy road back home
I let the music dictate my emotions
From Lil Wayne’s seductive Lollipop song
To Oasis reminding me I’m a Wonderwall
As I reached my destination,
Gary Jules’ cover of Mad World came on
I sat in my driveway just to let it play
I held my hand on the keys of the ignition but couldn’t turn them off
I put the song on repeat and backed out of the driveway
As though it was a commitment
The slow and steady bass hit my chest
I allowed it to ricochet
Not letting a note seep into my skin
But making sure I kept guard up
Without recognizing it, I ended up back on that poem’s doorstep
Begging for another stanza
And maybe a more solid conclusion
I told her my iambic pentameter wasn’t quite right
Without being workshoped at least once or twice
She let me in
And I began to rework the piece
She showed me all her flaws
And let my eraser raw her skin
Until finally,
With a closing Haiku
I said
Soft lips touch paper
Hold my ribs open and write
Melancholy words
Its always a love poem
Its always a narrative
I’m analyzing my every move so as I don’t lose you
But I don’t even have you
You’re not mine
You should accompany me,
Not compose me
Im sorry
Im sorry I betrayed you
Im sorry I was unfaithful
But damn,
If youda seen them curves,
You would have too