I want a man I could read poetry to.
(And I don’t care that that isn’t grammatically correct.)
I don’t suppose
it’s politically correct either, or that it conforms
to the notions of gender stereotypes we seem to carry
like luggage packed, too heavy
for a two-day trip.
I want a lover of poetry, too, or at least
a lover of words of some sort.
(Beautiful, blunt, lyrical, harsh.)
He doesn’t need to feel
exactly the same way I do – that’s fine.
He doesn’t need the tightness
in my chest, the way words are a hand
squeezing my heart; he just needs to feel something
for the ink-stains and dusty pages.
I want to hold them up to the light,
(Beaming and proud and hysterical
that beauty exists in this way.)
to the light that is you, dear, and I want you
to shine them back at me.
You weren’t what I expected, but
you let me read poetry to you.
Well, I suppose it’s changed quite a bit since the first draft. Quite a bit more than words have changed since then, whenever it was that I first started writing this.
Life’s beautiful, loves!