You are urban delight, New York debonair,
and you don't need to be grandeur
to set a trend or flutter a heart;
not when you brush your thumb against
the beard you maintain with apple-pie order,
and quickly flash your howlite teeth
with such modesty, that man has to
stop and wonder if it's really true
that the most endearing, do not have
a notion of how sublime they are.
and I love how the sun still catches itself
upon your burnished, rust-painted
locks, slicked back and parted,
careful not to hide a single fleck of
the honey-gold scattered in the jade
of your eyes that still flicker warmly,
even when we're passing under the
shadows of the skyscrapers that
try to swallow us whole with 8th Avenue.
take me to Amorino,
let me fix the collar of your shirt
while you order me a lemon gelato,
and I'll tell you on the walk
to the carousel on Pier 62
how it's all your fault that my cheeks
have been matching the pink
of your shirt since the afternoon-
and you don't even realize
you're doing that to me,
but I love it as much as I love
reminding you of the reasons
that I could think to adore you,
because that just happens
to be one of them.
And the other is because I would love to.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 10:12 PM UTC
You are urban delight, New York debonair,
and you don't need to be grandeur
to set a trend or flutter a heart;
not when you brush your thumb against
the beard you maintain with apple-pie order,
and quickly flash your howlite teeth
with such modesty, that man has to
stop and wonder if it's really true
that the most endearing, do not have
a notion of how sublime they are.
and I love how the sun still catches itself
upon your burnished, rust-painted
locks, slicked back and parted,
careful not to hide a single fleck of
the honey-gold scattered in the jade
of your eyes that still flicker warmly,
even when we're passing under the
shadows of the skyscrapers that
try to swallow us whole with 8th Avenue.
take me to Amorino,
let me fix the collar of your shirt
while you order me a lemon gelato,
and I'll tell you on the walk
to the carousel on Pier 62
how it's all your fault that my cheeks
have been matching the pink
of your shirt since the afternoon-
and you don't even realize
you're doing that to me,
but I love it as much as I love
reminding you of the reasons
that I could think to adore you,
because that just happens
to be one of them.
And the other is because I would love to.
I told a friend of mine I would write him a love poem as a testament to how wonderful he is. Since he loves poetry and, frankly, is the perfect muse for any hopeless romantic of a poet, I took advantage of the inspiration.
Like the majority of my poems, the title for this poem came to me last. Reading over the poem and immersing myself in the imagery, I just came to this one instance in all the daydreaming where I imagined myself asking that question during the walk to Pier 62.
It's such an awkward thing to ask, to hold someone's hand; most people kinda just pick up or make the cues and do it. I think that's why the title stuck, because I can be such a hesitant, bumbling and clumsy person, especially when I am smitten. Yet, I'd like to think a moment like that, when you're all starry-eyed and mixed with shyness and eagerness, holds that beautifully awkward, awkwardly beautiful sweetness to it.
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