AN ODE TO POETIC LICENCE
these places that you take us,
that we are taken into
are so beautiful
we move
and it is as if
everything else
stops
we move
and it is as if
everything else
shatters
what we knew
(what we thought we knew)
is gone
&
there is so much beauty in that loss
I thought I knew you
but I was wrong
I wanted to know you
and I was right
for (to have) that longing
some things can only be expressed in poetry
these words are
carefully-selected pieces of
art & soul & pleasure for
performance & consumption &
it brings me joy to share them with you
that’s what this is for, right?
a thrill. adventures of a spiritual warrior.
you told me about the void & I laughed at you.
I’m not ashamed to admit it now; it’s true.
I didn’t understand, and now I do.
I told you how much I wanted, and you apologised to me.
“sorry,” you said, and disappeared.
it’s as if every man I’ve ever known has been anonymously immortalised here. now. in this tome.
in this mini-ode to love & god knows what else.
when I was a teenager, I used to write because I wanted people to feel something.
for better or worse, I cannot sanitise myself.
sometimes I write and I can’t tell what’s real & what’s not.
this is a story, which makes it a work of fiction.
I merge & I mould & I become
a conduit for something
deeper.
you told me that you weren’t sure what you were doing here.
I smiled wryly and said, “I’m used to it.”
I got that. I saw you. I saw why you were here.
I saw your confusion. I felt your longing.
I felt your pain.
“I think pretty woman are superior,” you said. “I’m not sure if it’s a deep psychological childhood thing. who knows, and in a way— what does it matter? it’s true.”
a sigh. a shrug of the shoulders.
imperceptible. surrendered. a little sad.
I didn’t pity you, and I didn’t want to emasculate you.
I just saw you, and that was enough.
fast forward to now, and we’re sitting in a nice bar in central London.
soft booths, late night, low lighting.
an oasis from the world. and it’s as if you’re confessing to me.
neither of us know quite what you’re doing, and it doesn’t matter.
if anything, that’s what makes it safe for you to speak.
“I want to be able to get on with my life and my work and such like,” you say, “but when it comes to a relationship, eg. between a woman and a man, I think she should have the upper hand. a true confident man should be happy to worship his woman, literally.”
the waiter comes over, and I get another lemon & ginger tea.
“if that’s true,” I say, “why do you say that you are looking for needy girls? needy girls won’t let you worship them, even if you want them to. needy girls are needy not because they have big needs but because they can’t fully receive. needy girls are needy because when push comes to shove, they are emotionally shut down.”
we’ve discussed this before. you already know my opinion. you’re used to my spiels.
and, of course, you know neediness like the back of your hand.
it’s comforting to you. other people’s neediness, that is. it’s a distraction.
an escape. a place to put yourself. a space to absorb yourself in— one that’s utterly enthralling, intoxicating & frustrating in equal measure.
it makes you feel wanted.
it makes you feel needed
it makes you feel solid.
it makes you feel like you had a place & a purpose in this big, messy world.
it makes you feel something. because, my god— you’re so fucking tired of feeling nothing at all.
“when was the last time you were allowed to be needy?” I ask.
you raise a single dark eyebrow. “what are you insinuating?”
I smile, and roll my eyes lightly. playfully. lasciviously. I’m good at blurring lines without overstepping my or your boundaries. it’s what makes you trust me.
“what do you think?”