The LOVER: A Collection of Poems

I'd have to think about it.

Romanticism is not what it used to be. It’s stuck in art history. Everything we think we know about love has all become just intellectualized nonsense. There’s this common trope in therapy: a man so self-aware and so vain that he thinks he can think his way out of love. Then he meets a girl.

Love is natural and real.

I just get so bored. I want to lay awake wondering. I want to listen to love songs, wondering if she wants me. Then listen to sad songs when I realize she does not. I want to spend my days caught up in the thought of you in thigh-highs and big boots, covered in black.

Take away my boredom. Occupy my mind. Run up my tab. Then leave me alone under the weight of my addiction. Yearning for another hit. Waiting to love again.

We get married in our heads.

I pictured it like this. 

Somewhere outside. Somewhere tropical. Somewhere familiar. At night, clear skies, with specs of light glittered throughout. I’d have a little speech prepared. A couple words on how we met. Probably a retelling of the moment I knew this wasn’t just a fling.

If you’re ever unsure about a girl, you’ll be damn sure once you see her talking to another guy. That was the night I decided she was my girl. I’d say something of the like, fumbling around a little box in my pocket, waiting for the perfect moment. I get over my nerves. I get down on one knee. She gasps. I prop open the box. I pop the question. She says yes. A southern wedding under Spanish moss. A ranch home with a large front porch. A couple kids. Family close by. Maybe a dog.

How would you like your coffee?

Oh, sorry — just black.