“I live when I’m happy and I write when I’m not.”
I don’t know how to write about
happy things, fun things, soft things.
I’ve never been one to
compare the flutter of her lashes
to those of a butterfly
on a warm summer day
dancing among the blossoms
or remark on how staring into his eyes
feels like a sturdy cup
plunging deep into a well
of crisp spring water
These verses make me feel like a lovesick poet
with a rose between my teeth
and a bottle of perfume at the ready,
poised to scent my pages and send them off,
sealed with a kiss.
I am usually one to pick the petals off the flower
“she loves me not, she loves me not”
as I set the perfume on fire
“he love me not, he loves me not”
to blacken the edges of the tear-stained paper
as I sit and scribble and brood.
I am usually one to think of oil
as the thing we’re burning to kill the planet
not as a sweet smelling liquid I could warm
and rub all over my lover’s body,
hands caressing smooth skin
exploring, inviting, teasing, enjoying
I am changing, I guess, or being changed.
Growing up or growing happy or
just plain growing.
Being sad and angsty has its times and uses
(sometimes it is unavoidable)
but truth be told
now that I’ve experienced it
I’ll take writing about
the sigh of contentment, the bubbling laughter, the playful banter,
the intoxicating sensuality, the blushing cuteness,
the soft and gentle happiness