if people were condensations of words

he would be a melancholy poem:
dramatic in a top hat and high-tops,
with a hint of tetrameter in his falling hair and italic eyes
he's too quiet, speaks in expressions without words.
He's familiar, but last time I read him
(a year ago)
he was more a melodrama.
So is it strange that I, the people-reader,
want to kiss him
because he seems to need me to?

while he'd be a haiku,
boy number two:
he's all
about
the beats
and the
repeats,
the repeats
and the beats.
Form fitness over originality.
fits the mold
spits bold lines.
Just a minute at a time.
So is it strange that I, the people-reader,
want to kiss him
because he seems to want me to?

Instead I listen to the two
synchronize
(since they'll never harmonize)
on a bari sax that won't play low
and a drumset with a broken bass
at midnight.

My favourite style is spontaneous.

----

A/N: I'm kind of hesitant about publishing this one because it's the truth. I'm not hiding behind fictional characters or invented feelings, however fleeting those impulses may have been. This makes me feel really exposed.

We were hiding in a closet at the coast, at midnight, and one of the boys pulled out the crappy bari sax he was borrowing from school and the other boy sat down at his drumset (the bass drum didn't work), and they serenaded me. One of the best nights of my life.