Date a poet

I told them if I date you.
But they ask, how can it be?
Because we never look together

I answer

'I date him in my pages
Me as myself
And him as my word
He took me into the sky
Buy me an ice cream
We ride the stars
This is me
The one who was falling
But I enjoy my date'

If I had to fall in love I would fall
right into those dimples
and the soft hair that ruffles slightly
When you shoot me one of those
awkward smiles, shy to meet my hazelnut
eyes with your green hues.

I smelled love. Between Chai and coffee.
Brewing like the hot chocolate with cream
that stained your upper lip.
Your shyness, trying to avoid my gaze, but
your eyes lit up.

Blonde hair, creamy skin. Me like an opened
bottle of fizz, bubbly with joy, while you
shy and laughed along
held out your arm to me
so you could keep me safe.

Slow, gentle,sweeter than life.
You were not what I expected at all.
Not my type. Not the flashy kind.
But we ordered
the same drink at the same bar.

Vanity
made me numb for a while, I
mistaken my lust and ambition for love.
The men before you were as vain
as the price tag on my
red heel Louboutins.

But
You
didn't know did you?
Blue cashmere. Jeans and a gold watch.
You made a
sinner change her ways
you made a
Casanova believe in love again.

Suburban’s the only place open this late so we slide
into the red slicker seats, feet locked into orbit, knees chaste:
against the checkered table our hands grasp
empty space, separate by twos.
Graveyard workers chug past, silent ships on a still sea.
Grey-faced one asks to take our order
specials falling off her tongue
by rote, routine, and
on instinct I ask
for the two-for one cheeseburgers and a side of curly fries:
“extra crisp” you used to chime in;
smile in your eyes now
you say
none for me
thanks.

Our first date involved you shoving your tongue down my throat and i don’t know if it’s because you couldn’t get enough of me or you couldn't get rid of the taste of her.

Is it accident
that we met at the day
when my happiness began?

Dear Cute Boy At The Party,

It was nice meeting you. Again.

I bet you didn’t know you were the first person I ever flirted with. I bet you didn’t know I prepped for this date for a week. I bet you didn’t know how much my heart soared when you asked me out.

Thank you for telling me that I have a cute laugh. Thank you for telling me how much you wanted to see me again before I even left. Thank you for walking me back to the station.

It was nice talking to you.

I know when you complained about the chair, it was just an excuse to sit next to me. I know you want L to like you back. I know you deserve someone who treats you better.

It was nice that you finally messaged me, a week after the party.

But I bet you didn’t know how quickly I accepted the fact I’d never see you again. That I’ve already wrote you two poems and that I’m sat listening to the songs you recommended to me. Thank you for making me realise that the right guy will come along, but not right away. I thought I’d just be that girl at the party who’s name you can’t remember, or face you can’t place, but I was wrong.  

It was nice meeting you.

I‘m excited to see you again next week.

— p.d.e