post iii

My friend asked me what my "type" was the other day, and when I went over all of the people I've dated, I couldn't find a single thing they all had in common, other than not going well of course. But maybe that's just bitterness. I wondered how it was possible to find so many people with so little in common; after a certain point it seems unlikely, surely all of us have at least some commonality. Maybe I've subconciously been crossing off types of humans as I date them. That's a fucked up thing to write.

I remember one summer when I finally allowed myself to enjoy being oppressed by heat and humidity; I was either in love or delusional, I'm still not sure which, and I wrote this poem about the humidity, which was really about the someone. I showed it to him and he became distance itself, something I didn't know was possible until I knew him. I don't write poetry often, but when I do it has to rhyme. Real Poets might find this immature, but I never portended to be a Real Poet anyhow.

Humidity

She holds me close

When you’re not there

The sweet embrace

Of summer’s air

And in the darkness

She strokes my cheek

Singing softly

As I fall asleep.