Easily Smitten

Shades of Blue

This morning was one of those mornings in DC: rainy, windy. The type of morning where you arrive at work soaking wet even if you’re wearing a raincoat and using an umbrella.

I was walking to work under my blue umbrella this morning when I saw a young woman in a blue rainjacket — the same shade of blue as my umbrella — crossing the street. Her light brown hair was soaked under the hood of her blue jacket, strands running in front of her face as she waited for the light to change.

She looked up and noticed me watching her; she met my gaze.

As our paths crossed in the middle of the intersection, she flashed me a smile — the kind of smile that made the wind stand still and the rain freeze in mid-air — that felt like a ray of sunshine had just broken through the clouds to shine on me. I couldn’t just let her walk away.

I backtracked and asked if she needed an umbrella escort. She did, of course. Her name was Jackie, she preferred apple juice to orange juice (I learned at the convenience store where we stopped before heading to her office), and blue was her favorite color.

As I dropped her off at work, she smiled that same cloud-clearing and storm-stopping smile.

“See you next time it rains?”

See you next time it rains, indeed.

My Muse Ran Away

I used to write love poetry.

I used to write words that would
sing and dance
tell tales of romance
— all inspired by my muse.

But let me tell you some news.

See, my muse,
my muse ran away with another man.

She met him, as did I,
at the coffee shop.

Me,
covering the pages of my notebook
with lust-filled narratives.

Him,
highlighting the pages of his textbook
filled with mathematical derivatives.

He asked me the time.
I gave him the time to talk about
his frustrations;
his inability to sleep at night,
equations flying through his head
left and right.

And when he left the coffee shop,
try as a might,
from the edge of my pen
no words I could write.

Because as he walked away,
my muse also took flight.

That’s the news.
See, my muse,
my muse ran away with another man.

So now he’s out on the road
and I,
I am forsaken.

He thrills the crowds with tales of love
and hearts that are breaking.
And I look at him jealously,
because those are my words, my tales,
my thoughts for the taking.

That’s my muse.
Those are my stories.
That is my poetry that I have lost.

So now, I don’t write love poetry.

I don’t write poetry at all.

Instead, I watch the leaves fall
in front of my window and think,
“oh, that’s nice,”
instead of seeing the lyricism as they spin.
Once. Twice. Thrice.

Now I see lovers holding hands and
I just push to get by,
instead of watching their fingers
slowly intertwine.

Now, when I make love,
there is no orchestral symphony
in the background.
There is an absence of sound.

An absence of poetry.

So now I haunt the coffee shops,
searching for my muse
in the drawings of the artist,
in the words of the poet,
in the dreams of the waitress
serving me coffee until she lands her big break.

I can not find her.
My muse, that is.

I find the artist willing to share her drawings
through the touches of her fingers upon my back.

I find the poet willing to share her words
through the brushes of her lips upon my face.

I find the waitress willing to share her dreams
in her screams,
in her screams of emotion when we caress.

But not love.
Not love poetry.

I can not find her.
My muse, that is.

So when we are done and they start to inquire
will you write a poem about me?
About what just transpired?

I tell them no.
I don’t write love poetry anymore.

And they look at me hurt
turn around and leave me
with a wave of their hand,
but they do not understand
that my muse,
my muse ran away with another man.

Plugged

For Valentine’s Day, I’m buying you earplugs.

Not just because everyone needs some respite from my incessant blathering, but also because I snore.

Snoring may not seem like the worst of my vices. After all, I talk too much, I’m extremely overweight, I walk too slowly, I’m horribly indecisive, I cry too easily; the list goes on.

But see, even though you’re far away, every night I dream of you lying here next to me. I dream of sleepy conversations as we drift in and out of consciousness. I dream of whispering good night as we stare at each other with tired eyes. I dream of feeling your hair on my face as you restlessly roll through the night. I dream of kissing you on the forehead as I run off to work before the sun rises.

Every night, I dream of you lying here next to me. Every night, I worry that my snoring is keeping you awake — even though you may be far away.

For Valentine’s Day, I’m buying you earplugs. I hope you sleep well tonight.