I once tried to write a love poem,
But I couldn’t remember how it started.
So instead I wrote on a bathroom wall:
Love is sexist,
It doesn’t treat women right at all.
Her hair tickled the back of his hand as he lay there pretending to snore. She was already well asleep, caught somewhere in between this world and the next. She twitched a little, almost as if she was having a nightmare. Each twitch, and he was pushed further off the edge of the bed. He tapped her shoulder gently so as to not wake her, but it was to no avail. She continued to twitch. He tried again. Still nothing. Her legs jutted back and forth, her arms slide from side to side, and her head wrenched slightly – yet she remained perfectly asleep. He decided it was for the best – let her get her rest – but he thought that maybe, just maybe, she was trying to push him off the bed in her sleep.
A door opened and footsteps clapped away
Yet I gripped onto my pen hoping to carve into forever.
Words echoed onto paper and paper folded into a plane,
While I continued:
Even the biggest heart will one day wane.
He could probably beat her up. Not that it was anything to be proud about, but chauvinism goes as far as testosterone does and he wanted to be a man. The manliest man’s man, in fact. So he pretended to be strong. He flexed this way, and clenched that way. But she knew he was only a muscle-mind pencil-pusher, if that. She didn’t think much of it though. Not because she didn’t value a mediocre talent, but because she didn’t believe most of his words anyways. “Anyone can write,” she said. “It takes a special person to say something important.” From that day on, he stopped writing and instead tried to make her believe that language had been invented entirely so he could tell her how he felt about her. He told her he had Shakespeare at his fingertips, but wasn’t any good at poetry. Said that he thought he could write like Dostoevsky, even though he didn’t know Russian. The nonsense poured on. She just laughed and said, “I think I like your French better.” She gave him a kiss for reassurance.
A zip of the pants, a shake of the snake,
Whoever it was, he had forgot to wash his hands.
I decided I’d be quick before the whole room got infected,
So I penned my last sentence:
In our ending, we become resurrected.
The brain was the only muscle that mattered. He knew that. The heart wasn’t responsible for anything besides blood transport. But right then, right there, his heart was beating and pounding and for some reason, it transported him somewhere else. He found himself in grey pants during a rainy, humid day. Despite the weather, he was dancing. He wasn’t any good at it. To be honest, he was next to awful. But that didn’t matter. Because of his worst step, he had found something better. Something he thought would teach him how to waltz and tap and anything else. Back to now, back to reality. His heart seemed to be dancing, but it was doing it all wrong. There was no consistent melody. It was skipping a few beats. She was still talking, though. Still fumbling her words. He made a joke to ease the tension. No one laughed. Instead, there was just a smile. A brief, fleeting smile.
And he knew it was fake.