sometimes i catch myself writing like a 2013 tumblr girl. not that i'm against tumblr girls, or 2013, or the writing of girls, really; but you know the type i'm talking about.
mentioning-a-body-part-every-few-paragraphs type. there-is-something-inside-of-you-(probably-a-flower-or-some-other-plant) type. the type that reeks of cigarettes and seasides and longing. the type that could even just be one or two words
... and people gobble it right up. (i can't blame them. i once did.)
i'm not sure when i realized that there's more to poetry than typewriter aesthetics and talking about bones and rib cages and oceans. sometimes i catch myself comparing eyes to galaxies and i laugh because there are so many eyes, so many poets, so many stars.
i wonder if there's poetry in the little things. the mundane. rainbow gasoline leaks on damp streets; brown brick cafés during golden hour. untied shoe laces. kissing in the back of an uber. (there has to be, right?)
(there has to be poetry in the way my mother bakes her chicken pot pie. the thrum of music playing from another room. emojis. how chlorine sticks to you after swimming in pools. hands that don't fit together; hands that are too big to hold each other; hands that clasp on to each other anyway.)
(there has to be poetry in those.)