prose poem (of sorts)

APRIL, 2022

First date. First date. Nineteen. Feels too old. I have to crane my neck to look at him. I feel infinitesimally small. Cross my arms. Eyes dash around. Wearing yellow with blue patterns. Yellow makes me look sallow. Why am I rhyming? Trying not to appear nervous. Can he tell I have yearned for this? For such closeness, for one’s singular, undivided attention? Can his scanning eyes see my veins thrum, my heart pump? Walking to the nearest bookstore. Shelves stacked high across floors. Quiet this hour of the day. First time I’ve left my home with a lie on my tongue. I need to get back my 5:00 p.m. It’s 4:30 p.m. We choose books. Wuthering Heights for him. He browses, tall, flesh stretching to accommodate sinewy arms and tendons taut. He reaches for one, puts it on the counter.

Lust.

Things are supposed to mean something. Words don’t exist because we dreamt them up, falling from the Tower of Babel. All the theory I read tells me to get to the calcified bone of the text. I’m trying. This has to mean something. Everything has to mean something.

They don’t tell us— some things are better left unsaid. A quiet reconciliation with the idea of being unknown. Come home. Text, frantic. ‘I think I’m in love with someone else, you are a great guy. I wish you the best of luck.’ Click shut. What if we got all the things we wanted? What if the things we wanted, wanted us back? Not skin deep, broad hands against sharp contours. What if love turned us inside out?

I chose the quiet reconciliation with the idea of being unknown.