I hope my skin was ebony
I hope the dust settles over you like white Sunday school chalk
I hope you keep me like religion
And hold me in your heart
Never acknowledging it on the surface
But Counting on me somewhere within
I'll never write like F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Maybe I'll never write at all,
Or ever again,
Because after the day I met him
The Stars parted like the Red Sea
And God let himself in,
Telling me it was His turn to take the pen.
So I laughed and handed it over
Knowing everything I had written was translucent and flimsy and meaningless
Things changed the night I cried on rolling hills,
And I thought of mauve and rosy skies,
Just like my favorite writer did,
Knowing the clouds would never the flower he brought me at my show,
And I cried and cried until the sun swelled up in the sky,
Reminding me I'm alive
It was six brilliant months and things all made sense.
I told him about how I loved pearls
And he told me he loved the ones his grandmother wore.
He told me about his favorite constellation,
And I didn't tell him I loved it even more
I wrote dumb poetry that rhymed and rhymed
Because everything made too much sense for it to not.
Every I matched with an e
Every heartbeat in iambic pentameter
And everything Made sense.
It wasn't until the ends finally loosened
And the strings broke
And everything fell utterly apart that I realized
I am not meant to be like F. Scott Fitzgerald, and skies are not meant to be rosy.
"Show me a hero, and I'll show you a tragedy."
-F. Scott Fitzgerald