Reading You Poetry

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!


One thought on “Reading You Poetry

  1. Wow. This takes my breath away. Love it! Your insights transcend the barriers of time traditionally associated by your 20 (almost 21) years.

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