futoncam journals - Lindsey
The Poet - 2/8/2003 5:06 AM
I'm not a poet, but I met one once, this girl from China who wrote about green eyes that were like apples. I was in love with the girl she wrote it for and it's come to my attention that after years of waiting, perhaps that girl is in love with me, too.
"It's all about timing," a friend told me when he was complaining that his love life went no where. "It's all about timing and I'm terrible at timing." And I'm terrible at falling in love. I write about it when it happens like it's just another character from just another story whose body is flailing in the sky and the next day I read it and say, "What the hell?" What the hell, indeed. Maybe I should just get a fucking clue and give into a little introspection once and a while. And it's all about the timing, because now only part of me would take the damn Greyhound to the middle of nowhere just to give her a kiss on the cheek. That part diminishes and I forget why I came here in the first place.
Oh yes, the timing. "The timing's all bad, man," he said to me and I wrote him something wonderful. It was a good thing, to be able to give him that, to be able to find the part of me that was almost a poet and the part of me that let her go. I want her to fly. I want her to just jump from the cage and open her wings and I want her to disappear into the sunset. And I want the same thing for him because eventually it all goes to hell and they fly away. And the part of me that isn't a poet waves good-bye.
This is just another stop, I tell myself, just another place to run naked, to kiss beautiful people and to be elated in sharing a breath with them, to grow up and listen to Pink Floyd and to wish that I knew who the fool is behind these blue eyes. "Hers are more green and mine are more gray." I never stick around long enough to meet me. No loss; the critics who have been watching the longest give unfavorable reviews.
My reflection looks back at me from the window. "Never underestimate the power of a poet," I speak to the silent concrete that hates me with a sigh. No, I am not a poet, I am not even a writer. I just came to know language and liked her and sometimes we fool around in the dark.