em-biller
American
E.M. Is just one of those guys. You know the type. They have hair, and eyes, and a nose. They're generally either short or tall, though occasionally they're right in the middle. E.M., in fact, is the world's shortest giant. At least, he pretends to be. In point of fact, he's actually just the world's tallest midget.
I went to Wal-Mart, the other day
To buy you a shower curtain.
Not just any shower curtain, if I do say so myself,
But the perfect shower curtain.
I wanted a shower curtain that would describe you, as a person.
A shower curtain so wonderful
And weird
And uniquely you
That everyone that saw it would say,
"Damn! That's a fine shower curtain!"
And what's more, they would know,
Beyond a shadow of a doubt,
That it was your shower curtain.
No one else's.
I didn't find it.
I'm sorry. I am.
I tried to get one that fit
Your style, your class, your ******* beauty,
But I'm not sure it exists.
First, I tried to find one that smelled like fresh-cut flowers
After a rainstorm
In the Amazon.
Then, I thought about trying to find
Something that would match the color of your eyes,
But I don't think they've invented a material
That starts out sea green
Then changes to iron gray when you're happy,
Sky blue when you're sad,
And a mix of all three when you're angry,
Like a technicolor warning system.
So I looked for one patterned with cartoon owls.
Because I know you're scared of birds,
And the best time to face any fear
Is in the morning.
And the best way
Is as a cartoon.
They didn't have one printed with your favorite song,
Or one made entirely of white lillies,
Or one cut into the shape of every snowflake
From every snowball
You've ever fired,
With the accuracy of the captain of the softball team,
Directly at my head.
I tried to find one with your vicious brand of humor
That I find so compelling,
But they don't make a shower curtain
That insults your mother,
Then gives you a kiss on the chin
Because it can't reach your nose.
I went to Wal-Mart to buy you a shower curtain.
So I bought the only one they had
That I could justify
Because nothing else would have fit.
I bought one that is translucent,
So that if I walk in on you one morning-
By accident, of course-
When you are busy washing your hair
As you sing Elvis songs,
I'll be able to see you,
Without seeing everything.
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 1:39 PM UTC
Stop me if you've heard this one before.
Guy meets Girl.
Girl meets Guy.
And even though
They both know
That she's waaaaaay out of his league?
She still says, "Yeah, I'd love to go to dinner sometime."
And he asks, "With me?"
And that's how it starts.
That's the moment when their two hearts
Brush by each other so close
They can taste each other's nerves.
Maybe they go to dinner.
Maybe they don't.
Maybe they go sing karaoke
And go to theme parks
And sit down by the river on the floating dock
Bare inches above the chilly water.
Or maybe
Nothing happens.
Maybe the guy realizes that he's too lucky
And he doesn't know why
So he gets kinda shy,
And he does that thing that he does to all his relationships.
He lets it die.
He lets this one get away,
Like he has with so many others
When he's run out of words to say
That sound like what people these days want to hear.
He takes his true voice and smothers it
Beneath layers of what he thinks
Is appropriate.
Now, inside?
He's screaming,
His head thrown back to the moon,
Trying to convey words meaning something
Far more powerful than he could ever say
Out loud.
He wants to take her face in his hands and tell her,
"You remind me of those days, those days, those hazy days of summer,
When a gust yanks your kite's string from your hands
And takes your aerial octopus on a whirling waltz on the wind."
He wants to kiss her neck and whisper,
"When I met you, it reminded me of how it feels to be eating an ice-cream cone,
Then dropping your ice-cream on the hot pavement,
And you feel that the world is coming to an end,
But then
The ice-cream man hands you another cone.
This time with two scoops."
And he, for his part, would mean every word,
But so unlike the caged bird,
This little boy playing at being a man
Doesn't sing.
He lets those lines of poetry and prose
Sink back into him.
Unsaid. Unheard. Unfelt.
And the Girl, for her part, does nothing wrong.
She doesn't have any idea that his silent song
Even exists.
She just sees a guy,
Who is waaaaaay under her league,
Trying in vain to hold her interest.
So she gets bored,
And who can blame her?
And our guy?
He doesn't say a thing.
So this is for all the ones that got away.
For all the women that I have, in my day,
Let slide by me without hearing a thing that I wanted to say.
This is me saying, "I'm sorry."
This is me saying, "I wish I had said all those words to you.
That I hadn't been so ****** shy,
But I didn't and I was, and this is why
I'm making a vow.
Right here. Right now.
To never let this happen again.
It's time to let my immortal mouth run rampant
So that when I meet the next Girl That Got Away,
I can say,
"Hey. I know that I'm an odd guy,
And you probably can't think of a good reason why
On earth you should ever even consider
The prospect of one friendly dinner
With me, but let me tell you...
I'm great in bed."
And then, when that doesn't work,
And she, understandably, calls me a ****
Then I can say,
"Wait. You misread my meaning.
I don't mean I'll leave you moaning.
Well.
I might.
But that's not my point.
My point is this:
In those moments between when you're awake,
And when you're dreaming,
I'll be right next to you, speaking
Softly as a butterfly's wings
All the things about you I love.
I'll be singing every one of your favorite songs,
And giving sound to your favorite flavor of ice cream.
I will send you off into your dream
Wrapped in a beautiful, bountiful, blanket of words,
And as the night closes in and curls around the both of us
Like a lost lover's arms,
I'll tell you all the things I wish I had said.
I'll tell you all the things I want to say
To you, The One That Didn't Get Away."
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 1:28 PM UTC