by Candria Slamin
you asked me to write you a poem.
a love poem presumably, though you never
did specify. and i promised to. still intend
to, but darling i have to confess,
this is not that poem. not exactly. see,
everyone wants a love poem about them.
a song that tops the singles chart for a hot
and humid summer. a little neon post-it note
hastily scribbled on before the next work meeting
or college class. a poem recited
over a bundle of still wet roses, ballad sung over
accompanying guitar for everyone to hear. but
darling, what i have to tell you
is that these poems don’t exist. not exactly.
see, i could write you a poem all about butterflies:
the ones that birthed themselves in me when we met.
i could write you a poem about how i felt young
and dumb and alive when we first kissed. i could write
you a sexy and secret poem about bodies completing
each other and fire-lighting touches and perfect o mouths.
i could write you every love poem, from now until
we’re old or senile or even if we separate.
but darling—
none of those poems would compete
with the poem you write every early morning,
when you reach for me in your sleep, and upon finding me,
pull me closer into you.
Candria Slamin (she/her) is a recent college graduate from Virginia, USA. When she’s not being a poet, she’s busy being a giant nerd on the Internet. Find her on Twitter at @candyslam_.
