(no subject)
A note is left on Ramon's pillow in Spain. There's a (oh man such a cliché) single long-stemmed red rose next to it, as well as a rectangular package wrapped in white and silver paper.
***
I'm not very good at this.
Poetry, I mean.
I've always called it trite
and rather silly
and yet I'm compelled, on occasion, to write it.
Words used for art
from someone who's artless.
I find my art in your smiles
and I find my art in your frowns
and I find my art in little things others might not
notice, like the small fleck of brown in your left eye
right next to your pupil.
I know my poem doesn't rhyme
or scan very well.
Some might call it the exact
opposite of poetry, with only line breaks to mark its ways.
I try to come up with
pretty words to mark yours, but find myself falling
short.
All my words, all my ways,
you steal them from me.
Take them
and give them back, breathless.
I tried to think of
another way to mark your birthday.
Something other than my grasping (gasping?) words
broken into small, manageable bites.
But all I had were my winded words,
so I use them and put them down on paper
to give to you.
I don't know what these words will do to you.
But I have some small hope you'll like them,
exhausted as they are.
Tired after a long day's work, running through my
head over and over, placing themselves in order
just for you.
So easy just to say
I love you
and be done. But there's a demand in my mind,
a demand to make my words yours so you don't have to
steal them
anymore.
So I share them with you, shyly and hopefully and comfortably tired.
Happy twenty-third birthday, Ramon Salazar.
Te amo.
...See, I can steal your words, too.
***
Inside the package is a red leather photo album, filled with rare color photos of Ramon's childhood. There are, sadly, several large, unfortunate gaps. The pictures jump from him at about age eight to age 21, when he first met Hippolyta. The entire back half of the album is them together, though, as if making up for the gap.
***
I'm not very good at this.
Poetry, I mean.
I've always called it trite
and rather silly
and yet I'm compelled, on occasion, to write it.
Words used for art
from someone who's artless.
I find my art in your smiles
and I find my art in your frowns
and I find my art in little things others might not
notice, like the small fleck of brown in your left eye
right next to your pupil.
I know my poem doesn't rhyme
or scan very well.
Some might call it the exact
opposite of poetry, with only line breaks to mark its ways.
I try to come up with
pretty words to mark yours, but find myself falling
short.
All my words, all my ways,
you steal them from me.
Take them
and give them back, breathless.
I tried to think of
another way to mark your birthday.
Something other than my grasping (gasping?) words
broken into small, manageable bites.
But all I had were my winded words,
so I use them and put them down on paper
to give to you.
I don't know what these words will do to you.
But I have some small hope you'll like them,
exhausted as they are.
Tired after a long day's work, running through my
head over and over, placing themselves in order
just for you.
So easy just to say
I love you
and be done. But there's a demand in my mind,
a demand to make my words yours so you don't have to
steal them
anymore.
So I share them with you, shyly and hopefully and comfortably tired.
Happy twenty-third birthday, Ramon Salazar.
Te amo.
...See, I can steal your words, too.
***
Inside the package is a red leather photo album, filled with rare color photos of Ramon's childhood. There are, sadly, several large, unfortunate gaps. The pictures jump from him at about age eight to age 21, when he first met Hippolyta. The entire back half of the album is them together, though, as if making up for the gap.