Coffee Conversations

FIRST DATE

By the way mi hupenda vitu unique.

.

Oh, by “unique” you mean the type of shoes and clothes you wear or is your blood blue or maybe you, uh, shit cakes?

.

Is that funny?

.

No. It’s just sad.

.

Sad?

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Yea. Your face. It has this sadness even the make-up couldn’t mask. It looks unkissed for years. It’s crying out for my words, my hands and truth. And love’s colour. It’s–

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Wait, are you poet?

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No. People say I am.
Is that “unique”?

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Can you write me a poem?

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No.

You may end being just another love poem. Another entry in my blog. See, I never write about people I truly care about – like you, like family – unless I want the world to think I’m happy, that I have my two when couples tango on the face of the earth. I never write about my love life – unless I want to prove something to someone.

And love, how many poems can prove how I truly feel?

But, for you I can say something silly like –

You remind me of life’s meaning and purpose,
like how nights become songs and mornings look like your fingertips,
like you’re this delicate bridge from our past wounds to my future scars,
like I’m vulnerable. I need something outside myself.

.

Yea?

.

Like, I’m not asking for much. Just a piece of your heart.

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I’m sorry. That piece is all I have left.

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Like, I will take whatever you have got left.

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How will I know that I’m not just another poem, another love song, another I-Used-To-Bang-That-Chick girl on the street?

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Like, well, I –

I can be your.
Toes nails when you trip:
I can break and bleed for you.

I can be the pupil.
In your eyes, so you can.
Teach me how to see the world.
Through your eyes, I can.
Cry you an ocean and you.
Can build me a bridge to reach you.

In fact.
I can be a bridge in your love song.
The hook. In you rap song. I can be.
The needle on your groove. I can move.
Move your feet to the beat of my heart.
Move your waist of time to, to – purpose?
I can be. You in me, I mean like the.
The look in [y]our daughter’s eyes.
I can be myself for you, I can be.
My mama’s lullaby to the child in me.
Queen, I can be Your High-ness like the.
The smoke in your weed. I can be.
The truth. Nakedness. I can be.
The hook. In your bra.

I can be lost in the dazzling maze.
Of.
The.
Corn-rows.
Of your hair.
I can be beautiful.
Like a dream come true.

BUT–

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But what?

.

One day, I will forget you.
Like a shallow river’s ebb.
If you happen to be.
Just.
Another.
Love.
Poem.

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About Wudz

A scribe. A psychonaut.
This entry was posted in Love Poems, Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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