he tells me thoughts in monochrome
There's a lot of things he doesn't know
that I can tell him.
But I won't.
Not that he would listen if I did.
But some things you have to find out on your own.
Life is one of them.
He's probably never stopped and taken a whiff of a nearby flower
until I did the same and he followed.
It's that simple.
He's a lot more logical than I am.
His head has millions of file cabinets
that he's never taken the time to mess up.
Some ideas he has need time to ferment
like vintage wine.
But he strips them from their branches
He doesn't know the difference between poems and words so
he would never quite be a poet.
It doesn't matter.
He's already a butterfly among the computer carnage that he loves so much.
or not a butterfly, but a sparrow
who has made its nest there. Yes.
He isn't good with words.
To him, they're stumbling blocks
lined up in his tongue, ready to trip him.
He recycles too many phrases.
When I tell him his writing's trite,
he looks at me
but doesn't see me.
Maybe it's my own fault.
His hearing is not quite selective as it is discriminative.
Some things he'll never realize until
they come up and rip the blinds away from his eyes.
I sow seeds on his unfertile ground, only to find
they have suffocated.
He cannot be a poem.
I would like to touch him in a way, but-
ah. Hopelessness is not companionable.
I tell him we are too alike and different
to get along.
He doesn't believe me.
I steal silently into his thoughts
and stich my embroidery with crimson needles.
I know his angles better than he does.
Still, he never listens to me.
No one does.
But he should.
A/N: Eh? Is it a real story? Somewhat. Maybe, maybe not.
A note to Mendelssohn: If you want to know who this is, think about a person who named their poetry notebook "Thoughts in Monochrome" or something similar to that.