Some boys
Sit sternly
Shifting the weight from foot to wrist
Trying not to cry during love poems
Cause some girl got away
Foggy frames and smoked eyelids
he will probably never see again
From platforms and soap-boxes declaring love                                             Can be real
And preaching symphonies                                                                                                     Unaware
That he is all martinis and coladas
And she is fountain drinks, no ice                                                                                         They’re both desperate to quench thirst                                                                                   Both mixed up
Mix-tapes he made for her now are boxed up with the poems he never got to read.
Stories that only make sense if you were there
He lays them across his crossed legs
The weight of them screaming
That love poems tell too much truth
About a love that is all a lie
He never sees anyone else now
Stares blankly at the space on the stage
The mic stands empty
No words pass its lips that sounds like hers
So he dismisses every poem
He simply misses every poem that sounds like her                                                                    Or written for love
About him                                                                                                                                          Because he doesn’t remember what love tatse like
Yet I’ve been trying to dance
Lifts legs in twirls and pirouettes
Toe to heel and shuffle
Slow and dirty grind
Give words to him through naked skeletons of myself
Trying to move in ways my thick thighs and wobbly knees                                               never approved of
All so he can see something just as stimulating
But not quite so dramatic when I dance
I could write him a poem
Tip toe through metaphysical fanfare
With metaphors and hyperbole
Script a contrapuntal within a haiku
Simply for sake of saying …
“I think I could forever with you.”
But he’s been staring at the spot empty on the stage
Waiting for a love poem that’s never going to get written                                              Because love poems won’t
Unless he picks up his pen and watches me dance.