9

There's something about poetry you find incredibly hot, though you'll never admit it. Whenever I am writing poetry, you are attracted to me.

Usually it is then that you make your move, so I can never finish any poems when I am around you. That makes being a poet very difficult, because we live together.

One time when I was writing a poem about ducks and swings and things that are blue, you came up behind me and kissed the back of my neck. For a moment or three I just kept writing, but you were distracting so eventually I gave up.

One thing led to another and eventually we made our way from my desk to your bed, half dressed in the way that such things tend to happen when you are young and still appreciate the lack of chaperons. In the heat of a moment you murmured or moaned that you loved me.



Because I am not some high-drama girl from some stupid romance movie I did not freeze mid-act and flip a shit. I just said that I loved you too, kissed you, and kept going.

You later confessed to feeling stupid because, though you had intended to say it all along, you wanted to make it nice. I never confessed that I preferred the way things had happened--low-stress, spontaneous, full of all the right kinds of passion.

You seemed a little upset when I explained the psychology of sex and "I love you"s, but I imagined you got over it because you said it again. Besides, by that point you knew that anything I said about psychology wasn't personal. I had just really liked that class.

As we continued, I made less and less poetry--my energies and creativity were all absorbed by other certain pursuits. Sometimes I would tell you stories at night because you had a hard time falling asleep and that worried me. I was always tired the next day, but only a little, and you were always rested so it was more than worth it.

Sometimes after I lulled you to sleep, particularly if I didn't have to get up for a class the next morning, I sat up and wrote. I kept a notebook and writing accoutrement close to the bed because you always woke if I stood up. (I sometimes felt guilty about getting up to pee, you know.) When I finally laid down for the night you always instinctively pulled me close, even though I was next to certain that you were actually asleep.

You may or may not be glad to know that some truly beautiful poetry came out of nights like those. I mean, on one hand, you'd be happy for me. But on the other, you'd certainly feel disappointed that you slept through the crafting. You always acted as though every word I penned was some sort of brilliance and you wanted to be there to see it happen.

But maybe you only felt that way because you loved me. Or maybe because you thought history was see
poetry was such a turn-on. You'd deny that to the ends of the earth if I asked you, so I'm certain that I'll never be certain.

I'm pretty sure everything will be okay, regardless. People like us just work out that way--insomniacs and poets, people who don't mix and meld on the streets of average. We are something beautiful and different and exciting and our words reflect that whether in carefully contemplated lines and stanzas or muttered, impassioned "I love you"s.

This paper is thick beneath my pen and it comes together
feels something like the ∑ummation of US, and I like being able to see an old though process from old, crossed-out lines. It makes me feel as if the DELETE button was never invented and graphite doesn't magically rub away. This is the writing of old and, let me tell you, it is Bad Ass. Capitalized and accentuated when spoken.

You're asleep now. You are more beautiful than poetry when you sleep. I swear I love you all the more because you struggle to achieve what every infant masters by instinct. You are more beautiful than poetry and yet I think that make make you more more beautiful
into poetry itself. Poetry in motion. Poetry in action. Poetry in being.

I love you too. Sleep tight.