Euphoria began with brown paper packages and orange highlighter
Inside was a book of centuries over a century old
with pages thin and browning and filled with age
in the next string-tied parcel, tea. an ounce or so of
loose leaf chamomile and two different
bags. One bombay chai.
The string was tugged and an opening formed, spilling tea leaves like my worries scattered.
I got up and hugged him, and by god he hugged me back.
He hugs just right.
building up,
I skipped past 400 bc Beowulf to 642-735 bc Bede and then was hung up on the word "irr--"
I don't know how it ended.
i asked where he found it. I was told it was his great-grandmother's. I knew I didn't deserve that.
I was never that good a friend, never a lover, always that ulterior motive
He asked if I had read the note he slipped amid the sketches and notes
in old time cursive. I hadn't.
On the tattered brown leather chairs he sat by me, as I read.
I read all but a word of it, i couldn't make it out. But, in his eyes,
I am a Woman who loves Words.
and he couldn't be more right.
I read in three different places that night.
on the chair. on the bench. on the floor up the stairs.
Chair: I felt him watch the words under my hands.
I hoped he was watching my face.
Bench: all the same except our knees were touching and
when it got too loud to focus, he pulled me up the stairs.
Blocked from the doors' green room behind,
we slid to the ground.
Stairs: Closer than before, or maybe I was imagining things.
Keats' Ode on a Grecian Urn and on Melancholy and to Autumn on
my lips as I try to piece together what's happening right then, in life and on page.
too many poems about lovers for my head to think straight.
The show ends. the set's torn down. I've figured it out, i'll say, "strike went late."
He drove me there. We'd planned on him following, but I liked the excuse to drive with him.
He was sad that night. through the dark he told me that he's lost two of the three things
He takes pride in. Songs, Gaming, ***.
he doesn't like his poetry nor prose, but he likes his songs.
He lost friends being unable to compete internationally.
He knows having so much pride in being good at *** isn't healthy. That's when my mind
wandered to his recent ex-girlfriend.
But he said hesitantly that he'd love to read my words my poems
and i forgot.
i carried a bottle to the door. Left the book that was mine now in his car. He'd
keep me safe, he was my dd. I am too afraid of cars manned by inhibited drivers.
He'd keep me safe.
In the house. More people showed up.
people opened that bottle i had.
My first shot was out of a measuring cup.
My second straight from the bottle.
The third I spilled some on my chest and called myself an *******.
Fourth from the bottle. Elliot said he was proud of me. The tequila in me impressed him.
They said I should stop.
I took a fifth.
He was playing chess on the black leather couch so I joined him.
I couldn't focus on the chess pieces.
I curled into him
my legs over his my arms curled in.
I could focus on his fingers tracing doodles on the soft skin on the back of my arm
The lazy pattern burning into my psyche. Staining it red like blackberries on a white sundress.
I felt safe with him.
I hadn't felt taken care of in too long.
I feel safe with him.
And even though i was drunk and even though he's still getting over her
I can feel something with him, like there's a future somewhere in there.
If I hadn't had to leave, if he wasn't safe and sober with me,
things would have gone differently.
Instead of being hounded for trying I'd be scorned for doing.
I know that full well