2.17.2003
I lurve this poem..."real" poets will scoff at how trite it is but I don't care XP
I hate the way you talk to me
and the way you cut your hair
I hate the way you drive my car
I hate it when you stare
I hate your big dumb combat boots
And the way you read my mind
I hate you so much it makes me sick
It even makes me rhyme
I hate the way you're always right
I hate it when you lie
I hate it when you make me laugh
Even worse when you make me cry
I hate it that you're not around
And the fact that you didn't call
But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you
Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.
-From 10 Things I Hate About You
I hate the way you talk to me
and the way you cut your hair
I hate the way you drive my car
I hate it when you stare
I hate your big dumb combat boots
And the way you read my mind
I hate you so much it makes me sick
It even makes me rhyme
I hate the way you're always right
I hate it when you lie
I hate it when you make me laugh
Even worse when you make me cry
I hate it that you're not around
And the fact that you didn't call
But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you
Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.
-From 10 Things I Hate About You
(inspired by Benny and Joon)
Catch You Fall
He has long fingers, like an artist.
Except he’s not. I’m the artist, with my paints and canvas and tortured mind.
But still he tries. Even now, as I’m mixing the paint with his long, lovely fingers, he struggles to see things how I do.
Benny used to tell me that I was as talented as Picasso and Monet. I was as talented as the two of them because real art says everything without saying anything at all. I wonder if Sam understands what my art says to him.
Our fingers are tangled now, stained cerulean blue and brick red and slick against each other; his long, gentle, smooth fingers and my short, rough ones.
Sam has wonderful eyes as well; like they could cry you a river that you’d happily drown yourself in just for one look at him. Wide and curious, with irises dark as Hershey’s chocolate syrup and just as creamy looking. Those eyes are watching me now, and questions in a different language swirl past his vision and into mine. I don’t speak the tongue, but answer in one of my own. Good thing Sam can speak it too.
We’re both awkward, acting like teenagers out on a first-first date and not quite knowing what to do, except we’re both adults and should by now know what to do. But we don’t. So we mutually decide to make it up as we go along.
His kiss is both loving and shy. I adore it instantly. A thousand paintings rush through my head, inspired by this one motion. Music floods in along with the images, and I can just hear Joe Cocker rasping away...
“When the road gets dark
And you can no longer see
Just let my love throw a spark
And have a little faith in me.”
Catch You Fall
He has long fingers, like an artist.
Except he’s not. I’m the artist, with my paints and canvas and tortured mind.
But still he tries. Even now, as I’m mixing the paint with his long, lovely fingers, he struggles to see things how I do.
Benny used to tell me that I was as talented as Picasso and Monet. I was as talented as the two of them because real art says everything without saying anything at all. I wonder if Sam understands what my art says to him.
Our fingers are tangled now, stained cerulean blue and brick red and slick against each other; his long, gentle, smooth fingers and my short, rough ones.
Sam has wonderful eyes as well; like they could cry you a river that you’d happily drown yourself in just for one look at him. Wide and curious, with irises dark as Hershey’s chocolate syrup and just as creamy looking. Those eyes are watching me now, and questions in a different language swirl past his vision and into mine. I don’t speak the tongue, but answer in one of my own. Good thing Sam can speak it too.
We’re both awkward, acting like teenagers out on a first-first date and not quite knowing what to do, except we’re both adults and should by now know what to do. But we don’t. So we mutually decide to make it up as we go along.
His kiss is both loving and shy. I adore it instantly. A thousand paintings rush through my head, inspired by this one motion. Music floods in along with the images, and I can just hear Joe Cocker rasping away...
“When the road gets dark
And you can no longer see
Just let my love throw a spark
And have a little faith in me.”
2.16.2003
