Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Here is a prose poem I wrote over the summer. 

He said: I want to know where to find you.

            All the people he was really in love with worked in the service industry. Baristas, the girl at the sandwich shop, clothing store cashiers. How many times can a person really go shirt shopping and have it still be innocent? I worked in the wrong places and he could never find me.

            When I go out I like to sit at the bar. This is the same concept: the word bar. Bar, planted in the ground, it holds you rooted though your feet are not touching the ground. There is always a person on the other side. There are people around you and you sip slowly together, slowly ease into conversation. Though these people change, they might as well not, they all drink the same beer, have the same belly. Either are too young or too old.

            One time I rode my bicycle past him and he started screaming, “You’re on a bike! You’re on a bike!” as if I should know better. I didn’t stop though it wouldn’t have been difficult.

            In Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy run into each other at all sorts of functions, the best of which being the moors. He said: if only I could go out into the woods and find you there.

            When we definitely were not dating, he told one of his friends that it was a bad idea to hook up with people outside of a relationship. It hurts too badly to lose people. When he told me the story, I asked him where I had gone to. He didn’t understand the question or maybe he just didn’t notice I was there.

            When we were actually definitely not dating I sent him a poem and he said: this is not a place. 

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