A poem about being hella gay.
-----
Luck loves to bring me
My favorite pens.
I sit with her sometimes,
on the grass
of an open field.
Wordlessly,
she takes my hand
In hers,
Turns away,
picks up
Lined paper,
and
gives it to me.
My brows furrow,
and my lips purse.
She grins at me,
Checks her watch,
and stifles a laugh.
Many times
she has given me
photos,
artwork,
or
ideas.
I did not get a
Chance
To question her
Before she got up
And ran towards the bus stop.
I
did not know
if she wanted me
To wait
or
To go.
The dirt seems interesting.
maybe it can
Tell me
what to do.
I close my eyes and sigh.
Upon opening them,
I notice
In great intrigue
more than one
sheet.
I stand up and
Hurriedly
walk towards the bus stop,
Scanning the pages
Thoroughly.
I hear a soft
Laugh.
I startle from my thoughts
and see
Luck
Motioning me to sit
on a bench.
I roll my eyes and
wordlessly
Settle down.
She smiles my way
And waves over
a stranger
Who
Just so happens
To have
My pen.
I grin back.
