I dont know if it was because of the book you were reading
Or if it was because the curvature of your sloped spine
insinuated you were tired
Or maybe it was because you just looked lonely
But, you looked like you could write poetry
it could’ve been the pen marks on your fingers
Or the tan lines across your neck
But eyes like that don’t just sit down
Eyes like that start fires in my cheeks
And picket signs in my chest
And piss off legislators
But more importantly they make me want to write
I don’t know if it was the way your jaw clenched you
Or the way your tongue bit your teeth
But you looked like you could recite poetry
And even worse, I wanted to listen
I wanted to be your commitee, outreach, moral support
I wanted to be your pen, paper, microphone, clothes on your back
I wanted to be anything that touched your skin, touching me
You’re least favorite feeling is when your holding back tears and your face is about to explode
There’s reasons why the clouds look so heavy before falling
God can hold so much in
You said you don’t believe in luck, but you’re a firm believer in hope
That three leaf clovers weren’t done growing when they were plucked
That when a lady bug didn’t land on your hand,
A premature baby somewhere is using his grasp his mother’s finger
For the first time
I want to hear the poetry that you’ll write about the
spaces between your fingers
It will be the closest i’ll ever get to holding them
you were born an angry baby.
with tears in your eyes
But i use to poetry to say they weren’t angry.
just eyes dancing.