To Her, Love Wayne

when you dance, my heart beats so that I can
barely hear the guitar ripping
through the amplifier, damaging, loud,
and when you look at me and smile,
it seems I’m not alone in this bar but with my lover
who is like me great,

and when you speak
we talk of books, of Ayn Rand, and the meaning of
reading and understanding
that great swirling world just outside the door of this bar,
that can seem so pale sometimes.
I made you that stone blue necklace because it reminded me of
your eyes
and when you wore it right then, while you danced,
I knew it was love.

I traveled every Sunday night for you.
I waited to talk to you, patient.
I bought you beers, and for your sister,
thinking you noticed me, my smile, my love,
I dreamt of you
in my arms, only mine
mine mine mine,
I wanted The Fountainhead to give to you
like in those shaking dreams,
dreams where you and I stood on the summit
and consumed each other
and the pale pale world.

I ignored their laughter, those musicians with long hair,
long past their days of true rock and roll–
who are they to judge me,
they can’t move on from 1979,
from mediocre covers of uninspired music.
I professed my love after four months of longing,
of knowing you and me,
me and her,
meant to be, like a happily ever after…

you smiled
and looked away and around,
around, around, around,
desperate for?
for what?
someone to save you from the embarrassment–

I hear them laughing, and i can’t sleep anymore, and
I hear you saying, “you’re nice, but”
and I can’t dream anymore.
I will be patient. I will wait for you.
you will come crawling on bloody knees to me
back home like the exile who has
gone so far away punished
hurt,
lonely,
near death,
and is forgiven and asked to come home.

Advertisements

3 Comments

Filed under literature, poem, relationships, short story

3 responses to “To Her, Love Wayne

  1. I was reading “A Wrinkle in Time” to my seven year old and even though I could practically recite the book without looking at the words, given how many times I dog eared and devoured it as a kid, we got to a passage and I instantly thought entirely of you:

    (Mrs. Whatsit discussing sonnets to Calvin):

    It is a very strict form of poetry is it not?

    There are fourteen lines, I believe, all in iambic pentameter. That's a very strict rhythm or meter, yes?

    And each line has to end with a rigid rhyme pattern. And if the poet does not do it exactly this way, it is not a sonnet, is it?

    Calvin: You mean you're comparing our lives to a sonnet? A strict form, but freedom within it?

    Yes. You're given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you.

    (end passage)

    Muse, I really enjoy how you say things. You definitely make the middle parts interesting regardless of the structure.

    Sorry I was rude and slipped away without a 'bye!' I was worried about making my flight..

  2. and of course The Fountainhead is my. favorite. book. of. all. time.

    I admit I've robbed Roark's line when he's talking to Ellsworth Toohey “But, I don't think of you” many, many times over…

  3. ty- your comments deserve their own blog. thank you, thank you!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s