Genuine

When I first confessed to you
that I wrote poems,
you asked me
to recite one.

My untied,
string of thoughts
tripped over themselves.
My tongue
was just as much of a klutz
with whatever verbiage
it managed to spill over you
as my pulse,
fluttered up
the tunnel of my throat
to convince me
to just wing it.

Self-conscious
and bashful
was the man I grew into
and you –
could you not wait
in such dire suspense?
Can you not stare
with such intent?

You are,
by no means
relieving the pressure
with those eyes.
Those
bold and beautiful irises,
hugging your pupils
like arms do orphans,
framed in frameless lenses
ordained to maim my senses
into shock and awe.

You
are so utterly Kodak friendly,
my brain
keeps my eyelids shutter speed
to non-existent just
to take in your beauty
in every blinking moment.
I can’t help but keep
my aperture open.

I guess,
what I’m trying to say is:
give me something to write about.
I want to paint you
by the number
of childhood memories
and fears you still think
hide in your closet,
your darkest corners,
before the world
ignited your monsters
and revealed them to be
more human than not.

Tell me,
what drives you
and then
what drives you crazy.
I’ll get licensed for both
to help you steer.

Share the ingredients
to your passions
and we’ll have a
seasoned conversation for dinner,
an entree of flavors
I desire to savor with you.

Show me
your insecurities,
your impregnable doubts
and castle of failures
and I promise,
to build you a bridge
over your moat of depression
and discouragement.

When you first asked me
to recite you a poem,
it’s not that I didn’t hear you
the first time,
nothing drowned out your request.
It’s just that,
no poem
could ever reconstruct
the genuine
in your smile.

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