15 Weeks and Some Poetry

I finally cried--really cried--when I went to visit Nick the week before I left for England. I had written him some poetry before I drove up to see him. This, whether you realize it or not, is huge. I don't write poems for/about just anyone, much less read those poems aloud. Reading my own work to someone is a nerve-wracking, heart-on-my-sleeve sort of thing to do. It's so intimate, for lack of a better term.

I read these poems to Nick. And I cried. In mid-sentence. Several times. Then he read them, and then he cried. And then we cried. And he held me, and I didn't bother letting go for a long time. It felt good; it felt refreshing. It felt intimate.

"This is how I felt when I held you on that mountain," he said to me. And he was right. As far as defining moments in our relationship go, this moment at his house and the time we spent on Lover's Leap last fall when we first kissed are very big, very important--at least for me. The most recent moment reminded me how much I love him and how great of a friend he is. It reminded me that we can survive these 15 weeks. I hope we do. I want that more than anything at the moment.

How about some poetry?

For Nick

When we're all grown up

we'll have a big old quilt

on a big old bed

and if you fell off and knocked your head

I would kiss it, I would kiss it right where it bled,

and I'd love you and I'd hug you

and I'd wrap my arms around you

and I'd wrap my heart around you

and I'd feel you all around me,

see you all around me

in the trees and the leaves

and the wind and the seas

and the cold and the snow

in the fire when it glows,

and you'd always be around me,

and when I'm across that sea

I would picture you right next to me

under a big old quilt on that big old bed

with that big old scar right on your head,

and I'd kiss it, and I'd kiss it,

and no matter what you said

I would love you, I would love you

until I was old and dead.

Please?

I'd like to make you dinner

but I would burn the steak,

and with the gas leak in the oven

the potatoes wouldn't bake.

I'd like to tuck you in

but the blanket is so small

that you're feet are hanging out

like you're eight-feet-tall.

I'd like to buy you a present

but I'm much too poor

to get you something fancy

to bring through our door.

I'd like to give you a kiss

but my lips are far too dry

and I know that if I kissed you

it would only make you cry.

I'd like to make a life with you,

I'm imperfect, you should know,

But if you will bear with me

I'll have lots of time to grow.

Suitcase

I wouldn't pack my shoes

if you could fit inside my suitcase,

I wouldn't have the blues

if you could fit inside my suitcase,

We could go to Rome or to Versailles

or see a foreign film that would make us cry,

Even if we couldn't understand

we'd smile knowingly and I'd hold your hand,

I'd carry our umbrella on cobblestone streets,

I'd walk with you for miles with no shoes on my feet,

The people, they would stare at us with puzzled looks

but we'd have our noses stuck in travel books,

If you could fit inside my suitcase

we could share a beer

--or a bottle of wine,

Baby, I just want you here,

So get inside my suitcase

and come with me this fall,

But if you can't fit

I'll send you letters, and I'll call,

And in those letters will be

hopes and dreams of what's to come

and love, so much love

to hold you over till I'm home,

And then I'll bring my suitcase

back into the states,

Then baby, it's just fine

if we're too poor for dinner dates,

I'll just hold you in my arms

and feel the warmth inside your bones,

It will feel so good to know

that I don't have to be alone,

So wait for me, just wait for me

keep that warmth inside those bones

just read these words and think of me

when you start to feel alone.