Mar 2017
I felt my pulse stutter when I spoke of you
long before I met you, back when
I was marooned on the Island
with a bunch of sourpusses some years ago,
who told me it would have taken
a pipeline chilled on dry ice (with a faucet installed)
for all the people in Hell who want iced water,
and a meteor the size of Mauna Loa
tearing through every layer
of realistic expectations to discover you.
and that the meteor would still end up
the size of a gumball by the time
it hit the pavement, and the first drop of water
would get to the ****** warm as ****,
and they almost had me convinced,
crossing fingers and predicting meteor showers
before I learned of you by name,
swore Hell's patrons could stay parched
for all I cared, and headed west for forty-two miles
until I found you in a part of the Island
where those sore losers must've never bothered to look.
since then, I've made a list of reasons
why nothing's felt more profoundly simple
and beautiful to me than each instance
where I could have sworn your signals synced with my pulse.
and they're all worth explaining, but I've grown
more timid at twenty-two, and mostly stare
at the bottle of Magic Hat, the roof of the shed,
the scruff on your upper-lip or the creases in your shoes,
just to avoid making eye-contact
(though you don't seem to mind it.)
speaking of then, back at the shed,
when you were tapping your foot
to one of Twain's records, I was going to mention
something about how I love the sound
hard-heeled shoes make when they click against vinyl,
tile and hardwood floors, because it's soothing to me—
the same way the tone in your voice was
when you saw the Sour Belts on the candy rack,
when you thanked the gas station clerk
on the way out, told me you were having fun,
and softly brushed my hand
before you asked to borrow my lighter;
it's just a sound I adore.
though I wouldn't clarify whether I meant
the click of heels or the sound of your voice,
because I know it's going to sound silly either way,
so I speak to you in Morse code
and send the signals to myself
to remember there are things that
will always mean more than
they probably really do—
to you, to the world, to the psychic
who guaranteed simplicity and tenderness
for me when I was nineteen, and
probably laughed her way to the bank,
bought a gumball-sized rock on a silver ring,
and will be in stitches by the time she gets to Hell
to buy a round for the ******* underground
who are placing bets that I might be wrong about you,
and that I'll lose your signal soon
whether or not I want to.
long before I met you, back when
I was marooned on the Island
with a bunch of sourpusses some years ago,
who told me it would have taken
a pipeline chilled on dry ice (with a faucet installed)
for all the people in Hell who want iced water,
and a meteor the size of Mauna Loa
tearing through every layer
of realistic expectations to discover you.
and that the meteor would still end up
the size of a gumball by the time
it hit the pavement, and the first drop of water
would get to the ****** warm as ****,
and they almost had me convinced,
crossing fingers and predicting meteor showers
before I learned of you by name,
swore Hell's patrons could stay parched
for all I cared, and headed west for forty-two miles
until I found you in a part of the Island
where those sore losers must've never bothered to look.
since then, I've made a list of reasons
why nothing's felt more profoundly simple
and beautiful to me than each instance
where I could have sworn your signals synced with my pulse.
and they're all worth explaining, but I've grown
more timid at twenty-two, and mostly stare
at the bottle of Magic Hat, the roof of the shed,
the scruff on your upper-lip or the creases in your shoes,
just to avoid making eye-contact
(though you don't seem to mind it.)
speaking of then, back at the shed,
when you were tapping your foot
to one of Twain's records, I was going to mention
something about how I love the sound
hard-heeled shoes make when they click against vinyl,
tile and hardwood floors, because it's soothing to me—
the same way the tone in your voice was
when you saw the Sour Belts on the candy rack,
when you thanked the gas station clerk
on the way out, told me you were having fun,
and softly brushed my hand
before you asked to borrow my lighter;
it's just a sound I adore.
though I wouldn't clarify whether I meant
the click of heels or the sound of your voice,
because I know it's going to sound silly either way,
so I speak to you in Morse code
and send the signals to myself
to remember there are things that
will always mean more than
they probably really do—
to you, to the world, to the psychic
who guaranteed simplicity and tenderness
for me when I was nineteen, and
probably laughed her way to the bank,
bought a gumball-sized rock on a silver ring,
and will be in stitches by the time she gets to Hell
to buy a round for the ******* underground
who are placing bets that I might be wrong about you,
and that I'll lose your signal soon
whether or not I want to.
Morse code always fascinated me; it's one of those sounds that calm me when I listen to it (much like the sound hard-heeled shoes make, haha.) I've also felt this strange affinity with the complexity of it, and how cryptic or even ambiguous it is when someone doesn't know how to decipher it.
I often find that, as a hopeless romantic who isn't exactly brave with being honest when I'm fond of someone, I tend to somewhat water-down or keep my sentiments vague when I try to say how I feel; I get petrified by the thought of something mattering to me more than it probably should, and experiencing the disappointment when I am reminded that might be true, whether by a person I am fond of, or a friend/family member when I share my struggles with unrequited love.
It never really stopped me from believing strongly in that adoration when I feel it (or having good expectations because of it,) even if I find myself too afraid sometimes to try to realize my ambitions for love. That idealism has often made me gullible.
Five or six years ago, a "psychic" promised me a lot of things would happen within that year; I'd find love unexpectedly, come to a windfall of money, become successful, etc. Well, I ended up broke by that December, I still don't have a 401K, and while I've found love a few times since, it has often been unrequited. So the psychic probably bought herself something nice with the money she made cold-reading me.
Needless to say, it was one of the few things that reminded me realism is just as essential as idealism. However, being torn between them is why I tend to be taciturn in love; never sure if I am being too idealistic or too realistic.
I often find that, as a hopeless romantic who isn't exactly brave with being honest when I'm fond of someone, I tend to somewhat water-down or keep my sentiments vague when I try to say how I feel; I get petrified by the thought of something mattering to me more than it probably should, and experiencing the disappointment when I am reminded that might be true, whether by a person I am fond of, or a friend/family member when I share my struggles with unrequited love.
It never really stopped me from believing strongly in that adoration when I feel it (or having good expectations because of it,) even if I find myself too afraid sometimes to try to realize my ambitions for love. That idealism has often made me gullible.
Five or six years ago, a "psychic" promised me a lot of things would happen within that year; I'd find love unexpectedly, come to a windfall of money, become successful, etc. Well, I ended up broke by that December, I still don't have a 401K, and while I've found love a few times since, it has often been unrequited. So the psychic probably bought herself something nice with the money she made cold-reading me.
Needless to say, it was one of the few things that reminded me realism is just as essential as idealism. However, being torn between them is why I tend to be taciturn in love; never sure if I am being too idealistic or too realistic.
