Impractical Jokers Imagines (xReader)

Poetry - Joe x Reader

Normally when you would get home to your apartment and see an envelope stuffed into the doorframe, your mind would immediately wander. [Did I forget to pay rent? Did the water bill not go through this month? Is Gatsby barking while I'm not at home to keep him company?] But over the last few weeks, you've been receiving increasingly sweet poetry from a secret admirer at least once a week. So when you approach your door and notice that there's an envelope waiting there for you, you can't help but grin.

You tear into the note before even unlocking your door, setting your work bags down on the doormat.

Sonnets from the Portuguese 7: The face of all the world is changed, I think - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The face of all the world is changed, I think,

Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul

Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole

Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink

Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,

Was caught up into love, and taught the whole

Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole

God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink,

And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.

The names of country, heaven, are changed away

For where thou art or shalt be, there or here;

And this ... this lute and song ... loved yesterday,

(The singing angels know) are only dear,

Because thy name moves right in what they say.

"I know ya said you wanted me to keep an eye out, (Y/N)." Upon finishing the note, you look up to see your next-door neighbor Joe standing in his doorway, leaning on the doorframe. "But I didn't see anyone come by. Sorry" he says with a shrug. "That's okay Joey. Thanks for looking out." You open the door and pick up your dog Gatsby, calling back out into the hallway "So are you going to come in or not?" Joe beams ear to ear and follows you inside.

---

A few days pass with no new poems from your secret admirer. It has been snowing an insane amount, so much that your office has been closed. You've spent the days lazing around with Joe, watching old movies and baking sweet treats. Even though it feels a little stalker-ish and creepy, the notes really speak to you; not having the greatest self-confidence, it feels really good to you to actually feel wanted--like someone cares about you. You have a hard time believing that most days. So it's kinda sucked not having the poems to keep you company. Every night you reread one or two, just to get that good feeling back again.

The first day without more snow, you decide to take your dog Gatsby on a run in the park. The running trails are usually the first things cleared by the Parks Department, and it will help you get your mind off of the secret admirer. Tons of other people have had the same idea--New Yorkers do not like being cooped up for too long--so the people watching (and dog watching, let's be honest) gives you something different to think about.

You take the stairs up to your apartment, and when you reach the landing you see Joe fiddling with something in your door. Extremely curious and not wanting to startle him, you tiptoe up behind him. "Uh, Joey... what's this?" you ask, even though you have a pretty good idea of what it is. Joe turns around, envelope in his hand. "Uh... nothing? It's the... uh... water bill." he nods, seemingly satisfied with the lie he came up with "Came to my place instead of yours. What are you going to do? Those damn postal workers." You grab the envelope out of his hand and open it, revealing a new poem:

Variations on the Word "Love" - Margaret Atwood

This is a word we use to plug

holes with. It's the right size for those warm

blanks in speech, for those red heart-

shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing

like real hearts. Add lace

and you can sell

it. We insert it also in the one empty

space on the printed form

that comes with no instructions. There are whole

magazines with not much in them

but the word love, you can

rub it all over your body and you

can cook with it too. How do we know

it isn't what goes on at the cool

debaucheries of slugs under damp

pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-

seedlings nosing their tough snouts up

among the lettuces, they shout it.

Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising

their glittering knives in salute.

You glance up from the page while looking at Joe, his steely blue eyes trained on the floor. You continue.

Then there's the two

of us. This word

is far too short for us, it has only

four letters, too sparse

to fill those deep bare

vacuums between the stars

that press on us with their deafness.

It's not love we don't wish

to fall into, but that fear.

this word is not enough but it will

have to do. It's a single

vowel in this metallic

silence, a mouth that says

O again and again in wonder

and pain, a breath, a finger

grip on a cliffside. You can

hold on or let go.

"(Y/N), I was gonna tell ya eventually," he starts, sheepishly. "But I couldn't figure out how to do it. The words... I'm just not as good with them as you are, ya know? But we've talked about how much you love poetry before. How it's great at expressing things we feel but don't know how to say... do you remember?"

You look up, tears in your eyes. "Yeah Joey, I remember."

"Aw, (Y/N), don't cry. It isn't that serious." he forces a small laugh and opens his arms to you. You walk over to him, being enveloped by his arms as he rests his head on top of yours. "Since ya moved in and we became friends, I've kinda developed feelings for you. I guess. But if you don't feel the same way that's cool too... I guess." He purses his lips before giving your arms a quick squeeze, places a kiss on top of your head, then releases you.

"I should probably put Gatsby inside." you say, wiping your eyes and searching for your key inside of the bag you take running.

"Oh. Okay." Joe replies, looking a bit defeated. A smirk comes across your face as you swing the door open. You look at him, raising an eyebrow and reaching for his hand"So... are you going to come in or not?" Joe smiles from ear to ear and follows you inside.