Jul 2016
Dear mister ‘I-am-judging-you-for-the-type-of-tea-you-drink’,
I like you.
Maybe you would be comfortable if I didn’t say that I like you, or mention your discrimination for tea or was not the girl who wrote you a poem
But here I am, you. Here I am being the most vulnerable that I can be today.
I realized it last year on another rainy day in June, that I am the most vulnerable when I write poetry.
It was an evening when I sat near a window that sprayed rain water over my face while I wrote
A poem about the coffee I spilled on my bed that morning. Who knew, a mere coffee stain would take me back to war and pencil sharpeners from eighth grade and the kid who sold me two ballpoint pens for ten bucks at a traffic signal?
It would probably make you uncomfortable if I tell you that I recognize the shape of your hands better than mine but here I am, telling you just that.
Dear you,
Today on this rainy 12:42 am, I want you to know that I like how you make smiles without noses.
I like how the scent of your skin reminds me of cold blankets on a rainy night or how the shower smells of body-wash, long after I’m done.
Will you go away, if I tell you
that I want more of you than half-hearted ‘I need you’s and warm, replaceable hugs?
Will you stay, if I say,
that I see dawns with you at seashores and photographs of laughter and cups of tea?
That than searching crowds for perfect misfits- I’d rather make home out of my shaky arms, where I could draw portraits out of charcoal and you could make art of what we have.
Darling, I like you but let’s for now pretend that I don’t.
Let’s pretend I am in it for the temporary thrill and as soon as you leave,
I forget you.
That maybe I have a couple others, who make my heart happy when you are not around,
And you are not more to me than a friendly hookup.
Are you comfortable now?
I like you.
Maybe you would be comfortable if I didn’t say that I like you, or mention your discrimination for tea or was not the girl who wrote you a poem
But here I am, you. Here I am being the most vulnerable that I can be today.
I realized it last year on another rainy day in June, that I am the most vulnerable when I write poetry.
It was an evening when I sat near a window that sprayed rain water over my face while I wrote
A poem about the coffee I spilled on my bed that morning. Who knew, a mere coffee stain would take me back to war and pencil sharpeners from eighth grade and the kid who sold me two ballpoint pens for ten bucks at a traffic signal?
It would probably make you uncomfortable if I tell you that I recognize the shape of your hands better than mine but here I am, telling you just that.
Dear you,
Today on this rainy 12:42 am, I want you to know that I like how you make smiles without noses.
I like how the scent of your skin reminds me of cold blankets on a rainy night or how the shower smells of body-wash, long after I’m done.
Will you go away, if I tell you
that I want more of you than half-hearted ‘I need you’s and warm, replaceable hugs?
Will you stay, if I say,
that I see dawns with you at seashores and photographs of laughter and cups of tea?
That than searching crowds for perfect misfits- I’d rather make home out of my shaky arms, where I could draw portraits out of charcoal and you could make art of what we have.
Darling, I like you but let’s for now pretend that I don’t.
Let’s pretend I am in it for the temporary thrill and as soon as you leave,
I forget you.
That maybe I have a couple others, who make my heart happy when you are not around,
And you are not more to me than a friendly hookup.
Are you comfortable now?
