...and this isn't a poem
I've been going back and forth lately, do I don't I? Looking for my poetic ancestors for answers, Maya, Nikki, and Sonia
Gone to bed with me every night and wake up with me every morning
Never giving me answers just more questions
more variations of the same, is he, isn't he?
My words failing me continuous reiterations of I don't know when it hit me
I don't Know. Capital K.
Walking in the heat reminding myself of the diamonds at the meeting of my thighs, and the arch in my back
Confident that my love is too sunshine to be thrown back in my face.
I don't know. And then the words came.
But this isn't a poem.
Its the rhythm of my heart beat as the dichotomy of me resounds: Leap. Wait.
I told the truth. Said the words "I miss you" and cut the string letting them fly into the heavens.
No expectation of their return, like a balloon. And maybe they'll land in the same place in China.
That is all I know. That was my truth and the only truth there to reveal.
My song was short, three words. We are not a poem. We are not a sonnet. We are three words and punctuation marking an end.
My love is to poetic to be thrown back in my face. I've been spending my days with Sange.
She gets me, she gets Me.
And I remember my love through her recollection of hers.
I found My god again when she found hers.
And she, not her but She told me to wait for my poem.
Wait until the words flow like tears down my face warm with joy that I waited.
Write me a poem. Color me in calligraphy. Feather pen me concrete. Don't Cliff Note me beautiful.
I'm moving on to George. He gets me.
He found his poem. He is telling me what it feels to live in lyric, be coupled in couplets, and sway in rhyme.
I want to breathe love, eat love, speak love, and move to poetry.
Walking in rays She said wait. Write it to remember to wait. Wait and remember to write.
Be your poem and it will come. But this isn't it. Its just how my heart is beating through the day.
It's just nostalgia of a fourteen year dream deferred like Langston's raising in the sun.
Pomegranate lipped talk of the town.
Sugar hill spilled, sitting in verse, heart in her hand like a beggar with his tin cup.
She waits. But not alone, she has her words. And they keep her high in her dream, her belief and her faith. Her words and His word.
More precious than rubies. I'm sleeping with the divine.
I gotta dream to keep my eyes open. I stroll with Solo.
They get me.
This isn't a poem. It's just the sound of my heart beating as I wait in words.
For my poem.