Sometimes I must do nothing. Not wash the sheets, not vacuum, just stare into the generosity of the Red Oak, whose loving indifference is achingly intimate. Her branches gnarled, hidden by green plumes desiring sun, wanting time to let be. What does she see of me thumbing a poem on a glass box to join the unfinished poems I leave in my wake? The tree smiles, today we are one, I in my green, you with a period at the end of your poem.
I've seen the pattern. It's almost always like this. Either they're too scared to go out with me Or they are too intimidated and ends up Not being able to express their feelings towards me.
I've seen the pattern. I've seen this more than once before. I become wary of whoever's trying to get close to me And when I decide to open up, I end up falling hard Falling so deep, I become unaware of how he's actually afraid.
Another unfinished poem. It's difficult to put into words thoughts that one's self can't even comprehend.
I'd like to write about this good news, This good news that arrived unexpectedly. It wanted me to embrace it fully however weird and awkward it was. It wanted to stay and be with me even if it was unconventional.
But the good news is not for me. For the good news was young and was not ready for the real world.
I can't seem to wrap my head on the idea of having you. You who seem like a bad a idea but makes me feel so good everytime.