In a sense, this is an "ode" to all of the women I've ever seen across a room and just couldn't muster the nerve to talk to. That number is very high. That's not a poet's exaggeration either. Just plain reality. But, I wrote what comes below, so there's that. What comes below is a meeting of the core of a conversation with a crush (I think that she knows) and an undying need to use the last two lines in a poem.
At the Bar
I've tried hard to
I've tried hard not to
A fact about me, a fact about how I do -
If I saw you across a bar -
I wouldn't talk to you
Not because I'm some snob
Or because a snob is how I'd describe you
Both are nowhere near the truth
But because I don't want you thinking I do what the rest of them do
I'm afraid you'd think that
And honestly, I wouldn't blame you if you did
Missing bravery is why you won't hear from me
Deficiency in courage to prove to you that there's the others,
Then there's me.
Even if if they use the same words,
My version is said with sincerity.
So instead, I sit on my side of the bar
In my head, the perfect conversation plays itself out
We smile at what the other says
Laugh at the jokes cracked
All over a few drinks we get in that zone
That zone where the rest of the bar fades away
No peripheral except an occasional refocus for refills.
The night winds into the earliest of the next day
We close the bar.
I walk you to your car
Our conversation doesn't stay back in the bar
Smiles, and laughs, and connections made
You tell me this is something you almost never do
I tell you that too
And we both know what we just said is true
You search for a pen,
And finding it,
You write your number on a random receipt
I do the same and it's an even trade
And before we say goodnight, we kiss
A short kiss,
But the reaction it causes
All the buzzing and warmth of a beehive
We both take quick breaths that turn into grins,
Grins that glow and radiate
You squeeze my hand.
Then we go our own ways,
But we'll see each other again soon,
So the grins turn into smiles and stay.
Though that's the play in my head
So I finish my beer and pay my tab
And leave a tip for my bartender instead.
That night stays as a waking dream,
As does the chance to say:
"I don't want to hear I'm not like the others.
I want to hear there's no one quite like me."
A New Post
3 years ago