I am the girl with the flowers and it is you who gave them to me.
Little by little, I am blooming, for you and for myself.
I notice how precious our bodies are, how brief our moments in the span of numbered days.
The love of bread and kiss and make up, the full moon and jest and holding.
Us together is the miracle.
You’re on my skin tonight, the winds shift from gear to gear– I let my fears go tonight. I miss you rings true, you don’t have your number, but I still wait. Maybe you’ll call me some day. Maybe this is all a dream and I’m really the one that’s dead instead. They say poetry shouldn’t be so direct, it should feel like a magician’s act. For this first part, you’re on the moon. I can never get you down. You’re here almost every night, I can’t stop you from shining. I wish I could’ve held you that night. I wish I could’ve called you. I wish I could’ve heard your voice. I wish I could’ve held your hands. I wish I could’ve told you that you weren’t alone and you’ll never be alone. I wish I could’ve kissed your forehead goodnight. I wish I could’ve told you that I loved you. I wish I could’ve stopped the world for you even if it meant you’d only be there for another second. The sweetest things happen so quickly, I wish I could’ve been there to hold you tight, tell you that everything was going to be alright. I wish I could’ve told you that having no hair is in. It’s okay, I’ll go bald with you. I wish I could’ve told you that I’d be waiting for you. I wish I could’ve told you about the books I’ll write for you. I wish I could’ve read poetry to you. A poem a day keeps the heart filled with art. You don’t need to cry anymore. You don’t need to hurt anymore. The sad songs can have happy endings. Romeo and Juliet doesn’t need to die, I’ll rewrite Shakespeare. Classical music doesn’t have to have a sad appeal, I’ll play the happiest songs for you. You’re on my mind tonight, my heart shifts from fear to fear– if I am just an illusion or a dream and you are the dreamer, then dream me into a smile. Keep it warm, keep it alive. Keep me in your back pocket, the best poems are surprises. Keep me inside of your palms, I’ll deliver your words into sweet nothings– tell you that I love you just to love you. Tell you that I miss you just to miss you. Tell you that I need you just to need you. Tell you that you’re important. Tell you that you’re special. Tell you that you’re beautiful. Tell you that you’re sweet. Tell you that you’re cute. Tell you that the story never ends, it just needs a quick pause, the greatest pieces ever written has one or two. Tell you that this? Death? It’s just another adventure and if it’s somehow beautiful– won’t you send postcards? I saw that quote in a movie and it was used kinda weird, I find this prose piece fitting. This is my apology to you, I haven’t been myself as of lately and my intentions are pure. I want my words to reach you, maybe break the fourth wall of my story kind of poetry. If the world is a sick simulation and I’m always destined to be here, at this very moment, stuck at 5:09 am, a little high, a little heartbroken, a pack of cigarettes in, a little damaged, a little lost, a little trapped, a little hurt, a little stressed, a little torn, a little bit without you– then I’ll pick every option that’ll return me to that fateful day when I was asked for a poem. Straight from my thoughts and into your veins. You’re on my skin tonight and I just want you to stay even if you’ll be gone by sunrise.
I read my favorite poem, the first poem I ever loved, just now and I cried because I remember hearing it read aloud by my teacher when I was little and thinking what is this magic. It reminded me why I love poetry. All I want to do with my words is give someone that feeling of wanting to fold a poem up very small and take it with you in your coat pocket all winter.
I was given the beaded purse by a friend on a birthday in middle-school. The inside is felted with black and the outside seeded with scintillating reels of a green and blue bead. The beads spin inward to form a gaunt, bodiless black face. Though these are all needless and background to its eyes. For the eyes belong to the purse and not the face; an effigy carried in my coat-pocket. With the years, the beads have strung from the fabric, collecting in small pools but the eyes remain- top-heavy and ugly. The eyes have seen and been on each night excursion, ripped of its travel-card clad to its chest and the coins and the keys, and I often wonder what do they think? Do you object? Would you leave? Eyes pooled in the bottom of my pocket.
Summary: Dan is a
poet oblivious to the world of relationships, Phil has commitment issues. They
become friends with benefits. But Dan finds that over time, one of their
benefits was never truthfulness.
Part One of the ‘Up At Night’ albumfic series!!
(Friends with Benefits / poet!dan)
of sex (and scenes of pre-smut), swearing, a lot of angst
An ode to the girls who are still writing poems on their guests checks-
Who have to decipher their own metaphors among chicken scratch about chicken wings and fry orders-
who dig for poems in pockets full of pennies, pens, and parables.
Who run to last call, 1:45
time for two drinks
hands on the bar
deflect men with straight lined mouths and the smell of bacon grease.
For the girls who laugh off lingering eyes, but still put on mascara in the bathroom because 20 percent is the only way to pay the light bill and you’re pretty sure Shawn the bar regular hates his wife anyway.
For the girls who know that once your feet hurt bad enough, they start to itch.
Who use their fire match tongues to light their ten minute cigarettes and bitch at Brandi about how table thirteen ACTUALLY HAS TO BE DRINKING THEIR FUCKING RANCH.
Who can’t find the will to edit their word work because they spent all night working to find the words to tell Bob the bar regular that he’s probably a racist - without getting fired.
Who wolverine-key their way to their cars because it is already worrisome enough carrying one thing men find valuable beneath your apron, let alone 150 cash.
When you spend the next hours
lavender oil healing
hot rag wiping
back to your body
you are not 2.13 an hour robot with the detachable coors light bottle feature.
You are 100 mile an hour missile
not miss a thing
meet in the middle
do you hear that?
You are a hot head smart enough to cool off in the deep freeze.
You are service with a smile get served later
You are woman.
And one day, from your automatic pay
Bob the bar regular is going to be able to hear you tell him
to fuck off.