Poetry

“Has anyone ever written a poem for you?” He asked me.

I was FaceTiming with my gentleman friend when I was asked this. “No, I don’t think I have ever had someone write me a poem,” I answered.

I was never one to care much for poetry. I often felt that I was missing the context that everyone saw in school. My gentleman friend was a poet. Not his day gig; it was his side passion. When I googled his name before our first date, I came across his poetry. I didn’t know how I would bring up this discovery upon our first date. I find poetry to be intimate in nature. The language is stripped into specific words and explicitly placed on a page in particular ways. Poetry can also feel rather coy or even too macabre for my taste. I own a few poetry books, mostly because I happened to be at some poetry readings and felt the need to support the poet. I picked up a few at a literary festival in LA a few years ago. Some I was genuinely interested in reading, some were pity buys.

When my gentleman friend read me poetry he wrote for me, it felt magical. Someone was able to create something so intimate just for me. Much like us reading while sunbathing in the December sun. When he would push back my bangs and give soft kisses on my forehead as I fell asleep in his arms.

I don’t know where the poet went. Overnight, he pretty much vanished from this side of the state. A week of feeling distressed and sleepless nights happened. We went from calling each other every day to only exchanging a few texts in a day. Trying to self-soothe by going to the gym and watching hours of Selling Sunset. All failed attempts to keep me from staring at my phone. In a desperate attempt to feel control, I went to see the new Spider-Man movie. I figured a dark theater that made you turn off your phone for a few hours could quill my madness. The previews alone took about half an hour to go through. When I turned my phone on, I had hoped my gentleman friend had called. No call, no text. I kept pestering and pestering, only to hear a definitive response of silence. Another connection was ruined.

I made an attempt at poetry at one point. If I could use the words, it could manifest the intimacy we share. I would share it, but it is too private, even for this place.

Nov. 5th, 2021. Taken around Sunset. Photo by Margaret Burke.