Frerard OneShots (finished)

LXXV - Pretty Poetry

[hello y'all its been a while but heres some stuff enjoú

f's pov btw]

Poetry has never been my thing. To be honest, I never understood anything about it. How can people write metaphors and rhymes about love all the time? Doesn't it get boring?

There's just so much you can say about love. Surely poets would run out of things to say eventually, wouldn't they?

Art in general has never been my thing. I don't get it. Some day, I went to an art gallery with a girl as a date. We stood there in front of one painting, hands linked loosely, just looking at it.

She was an art nerd. And I mean, it was extreme. Hardcore even. And I didn't want to be rude or seem like I was in a rush, so I waited with her, staring at the red and blue and green splatters on white canvas.

At some point, she turned to me, and said 'do you feel that?'

And I looked at her and asked 'feel what?'

And she sighed dramatically, a small smile on her face as she turned back to the painting. 'The feelings, Frank,' she said, 'the feelings the painting is giving off. Don't you see the emotion flowing from the canvas?'

I adjusted my grip on her hand and looked back at the painting, squinting my eyes as if that would help me see the non-existent things. 'Feelings. Emotions,' I said, and she hummed and nodded. 'Well,' I said after a minute had passed, 'this one spot, right there-' With my free hand, I pointed to a bit of dark blue paint on the left side- 'That thing kind of looks like a turd.'

Needless to say, she never went with me on another date. And I couldn't really blame her for that.

I also dated a guy once who wrote a lot of poets. Every day when he'd get home from college, he'd sit down, get out his calligraphy pen and paper, and write a poem. Just like that. No need to think about a topic or a metaphor. No, he just sat and wrote.

What made it very hard for me to spend time with him. The only time I could actually talk to him about something, was when we talked about poets, or when we were in class together. And it was so, so exhausting.

I tried to understand his poems, tried to get my mind into that kind of stuff. But it didn't work.

And he was very impatient.

He kept pushing me, saying things like 'why can't you just get it?' and he showed no understanding.

And I tried to explain it to him, tried to show him that I am trying to just get it, but he wouldn't listen.

'You're too stubborn to see true talent,' he said, shaking his head as he pushed pieces of paper in his backpack. 'Too stubborn, Frank. Too stubborn.'

I could only watch helplessly as he walked out of the door, and I never talked to him again.

So, that's when I swore myself never to date an artist again. And it worked fine for the next few years; I had a girlfriend for a while, but she moved away because of a job in California. Then, for a while, I stayed by myself, living my life as a single guy. And then-

Oh, then.

Then I met him.

He was the best of all things; a painter; a musician; a writer; a poet; a boyfriend.

And he was patient and understanding. I told him: 'art and poetry isn't really my thing, I don't get that kinda stuff.'

But he only smiled and squeezed my hand. 'That's alright, I'll get that kinda stuff for the both of us.'

Sometimes, he'd write a poem for me or paint something and slip it into my bag so that I'd find it at work. And when I read his poems, I finally understood.

I understood how people could write about love endlessly; I understood how it never got boring.

And I understood how people could love the same person until the end of their time.