"It's not Poetry, just a piece of writing that I wrote for the pretty girl with perfect dark hair."
Why aren't you sleeping yet? You asked.
No, because I had an hour and a half.
In an hour and a half. I could have painted.
I could have written, played the piano, made a tomorrows to-do list
Made the carrot smoothie that I scheduled on Saturday at 6:00 pm.
I.
Instead in an hour and a half, I basked into the warmth of your existence.
Your movement for example, graceful like a stream of water, and I watched
I watched, I watched every infinitesimal movement hoping that if I looked hard enough I would be able to put you on my sketch pad – the aspiring pianist with pretty dark hair that perfectly fell in a series of curls.
And I knew you cared more about the melody and your music injecting feelings to your audience
But I'm an artist, and I cared more about the artistry of your fingertips when it moved into a series of enchanting movements every time you pressed on a piano tile. You are enchanting, I was enchanted. Enchanted. Enchanted.
II.
On another day, I would say "You're such a Pisces"
You'd tell me, "Whatever, I don't believe in astrology."
But then you would send me videos about planets and their moons and It may have been because I told you that I like naming people after planets according to their characteristics.
I read you one poem I wrote for Jupiter.
You are not Jupiter and it doesn't matter, I no longer care about the prince of the solar system.
You are not Pluto, Pluto I can't even remember his name, I have long forgotten the warmth of his presence.
And you could not be Venus, she is ethereal, just a Goddess in my head. But I don't really care about Planets and their Moons. I cared that I am still in your orbit. You are the Sun. You are the Sun. You are the goddamn Sun.
III.
I read you another poem in a language I am not supposed to be learning
But I have an obsession with ancient words and alluring dark eyes that looked into mine
"It's perfect" You would say. My intonation and conjugations were right where they belonged.
But I don't want to talk about grammar or perfect pronunciation.
I am just a girl – in her stupid black dress and fake blonde hair
No – I am a goddamn poet, at 8:15 pm in front of you
I am a poet and words whisper in my head. I did it perfectly didn't I?
But it's just another bastard poetic thing to do, to do it perfectly for you.
My head is spinning.
