Every now and then, I branch out of writing for school, Clmbing Magazine, text messages, and I dabble in poetry. My friend David Hernandez suggested I put some of it on my blog, so, here you go! I might start randomly posting bits of poetry. Some of it will be mine and some of it will be the work of others. But since this is MY blog and I like poetry, you just have to suck it up and deal. Here's one I wrote a little while ago.
To The Girl Reading Gatsby On The Couch By The Window
There is an older woman
making Valentines in the corner by the lamp,
and a man bearded with scars he’d
rather not talk about playing the piano.
The woman with scissors and red paper listens
to his rendition of Billie Holliday’s
“I’ll Be Seeing You”, and thinks he is playing for her.
No, he is playing for us.
See, you sit by the window
and I see that we are both drinking cappuccino,
and I think that says a lot about a person.
I can’t pay for yours
but I can offer you all the real
estate of my right hand.
You could sip the art off my foam
and read me your favorite lines.
We could sway our heads
to the piano man’s fingers
and talk about high school versions of our selves.
You could tell me about how God
listens to your heartbeat on his iPod,
how you’ve learned to let it be okay to say,
“I really wanted that to work.”
I could tell you about how I learned
to flinch before I learned to read,
that I’ve learned to give myself
permission to be complicated.
Older couples would say,
“You two look good together.”
I would tap you with my elbow,
as if to suggest, I agree.
I’d make you breakfast in the
morning, run my fingers
down your spine and ask,
“Five more minutes.”
If I could find a way to grind my
teeth into an “I dare you”,
I’d dare myself to ignore the washing
machine in my stomach
and ask you for your name.
See, I missed class the day they
taught us how to be brave,
but I’ve come to understand that
my insecurities are in all the right places.