Penned as a (belated) birthday gift for Free the Poet. Happy birthday, mon petit chou! :)


The first time we talk is at a summer band rehearsal, learning the opening sets of this year's field show.
You're the new kid; that much is obvious.

We make small talk, the weather and such.
The rain from Irene is, as you say, making all our lives merry hell. I laugh, and smile - and ultimately, agree.

I don't know who you are, but you seem nice.
And funny. And talented. And smart.

It's strange; I actually like talking to you.
This is a first. I don't usually talk.

I'm watching when you march with us for the first time, right on the end of the brass line.
I'm amazed at how good you already are, though you're not the best you could be.

And when you notice me staring, you come right up and talk to me.
Not too hesitant, but not too bold, either.

You introduce yourself to me as a poet.
I'm more of a prose/narrative writer myself, though poets have always fascinated me.

You'd probably make a great friend, too, if we had the chance to get to know each other.
But the new kids don't stick around. They never do.


In band, we start learning the ballad movement of our show. School starts. And you're still here.
I'm shocked; they've usually moved away by now… you're the first one who hasn't. I don't mind at all.

We even have a few classes together.
Band, orchestra, English. Things I like.

We talk some more, and soon enough, I learn some more stuff about you.
You take German, you think rain is good for writing, you're a lot better at viola than you are at trumpet.

At the end of the week, we exchange numbers, and you promise to call.
I'm surprised to find that I'm actually excited to talk to you.

You follow through on your promise soon enough.
"Hi, how are you?"

Over the course of the year, you prove that you're a friend worth waiting for.
'Cause believe me, I've waited a long time.

Of course, there are still times when you make no sense.
"My dentist just tells me to floss." "...what?"

But by now, I've come to my conclusion: you're absolutely insane.
And I think I like you.


By the time we start learning drill for the closer, I'm certain-
You're brilliant.

I watch, and am continually amazed, as you grow into your role.
You're not the new kid anymore.

You tell me that you're moving again, so I won't be hearing from you till later.
But you're moving closer to my part of town, which is pretty cool.

I wait as patiently as I can until you're settled in after your move.
I'm really happy, though, when I can talk to you again.

Sometime around July - your birthday - I realize that I haven't thanked you yet.
For being such a great fellow author and musician and friend.

I stay up all night wracking my brain for a decent gift.
It's four in the morning, and still your present is, like, ten days late… whoops, sorry!

At about 4:25 A.M., I think I'm just about finished.
I'm still worried that it's not good enough, but you know what? You're just gonna have to deal with it.

So hey. Happy birthday, kid.
Here's to the music, here's to the writing; here's to another great year.

This thing is some weird combination of sentimentality and extended metaphor and prose storytelling and god knows what okay I'm not even gonna try and classify whatever the heck it is

but I hope you like it.

Ok so there's some numerical significance in this piece that I just want to point out to you guys real quick, because I actually feel pretty clever for managing to slip this stuff in:

1) There's a total of 48 lines in this entire piece, excluding headers (I, II, III) and author's notes. That is because it was exactly 48 weeks ago that I first had any sort of communication with this awesome girl, give or take a day. Yay, landmarks! xD

b) The thirteenth line is a reference to the fact that Set Free My Poet was her 13th story and also happened to be the poem that explained her pen name.

purple) Also, the three-sectioned thing is because three is probably the most common number for the number of movements included in a field show and I'm a huge dork like that :p. I actually mention the terms "opener/opening", "ballad", and "closer" in each respective section, too.

It's 4:57 in the morning. God I'm so tired.

Am I making a fool of myself? Probably.

Do I care?


So if there's nothing else to say... I guess I'll just leave this here then(: