Evan
It's been a while because I don't know how to make you rhyme together. Poetry isn't the cure for you because I feel nothing as I write about you. But I feel something in the songs I listen to. I'm remembering the first time, with South Park's theme in the background, and how you said it was real yet I just kept crying because I didn't want to believe the pain between my hips was from you. So I shoved it deep down and allowed myself to be blinded by only the good things about you. Like the way you kissed me when we stopped kissing. You pressed your lips against my nose, eyes and forehead and I remembered thinking: what are you doing? But I loved your stubbly chin you could never grow out; the hair was the same size as the space left in my heart, still I squeezed you in. Still I made room. You laughed and loved the goosebumps on my arms that arose from your kisses placed on the back of my neck. God, I loved your foreign atmosphere. Such an adventure to be able to explore your depths. Your heart and your mind was like an infinity of unknown territories that drove people wild. You've had the most people say goodbye to you but the ones that get close have the hardest saying goodbye to you. Did you know your second mother cried when you moved out? Did you know your childhood friend writes poetry about you and your brown eyes? Did you know I cried when I fed your fish and found three old photos of you? No, you don't or maybe you know too well and shove it deep down. Please, can I have your gift of living with the pain? Or can I have the ability to take it all away? Can I kiss your wounds but never touch you cause the last time I did, I remember you flinching. I didn't mean to; I just wanted to help. Please let me help, cause I forgot to tell you I wrote some dumb poetry about you. It's not that great and it was hard but I did it. I let everyone read it because they react all the same: "You're a good writer." But I recall the time when you said that, too. And in doing so, I remember that time you said you cared. And I forgot whether I believed you or not.
YOU ARE READING
How I Love You
Poetry". . . . Then must you speak / Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well; / Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, / Perplex'd in the extreme. . . ." -Act 5, Scene 2 of Othello by W. Shakespeare A collection of poems to the boys and men I hav...
