My mom asked me if I would ever write a poem about you. She suggested that I recite during this night. I don’t know...it’s strange. I’ve spent years writing poems that now line the bottoms of old bags, covered in expired makeup, dusty hair ties, and old receipts. It’s 5:14 pm and it’s about 57 degrees outside. I came home early because you gave me another bladder infection from the rough sex the night before. Right now, you’re sleeping next to me, and your subtle snores are a sign that you’re resting with ease. You know, you always said that Gloria hated your snores, but somehow, I always look to that noise as a reminder of how peaceful you are. Your elbow is underneath me, and it’s so funny because I always have to be touching you in some way, shape, or form. 

Write a poem about you? Damn. I don’t know if I can write a textbook definition of something so eloquently stated. I’ve thought about what my mom said and she will probably deduce this as the result. Am I eloquent, baby? I think there’s a part of me that is, but deep-down, I’m a chaotic mess that always blames her Virgo nature—even if I simultaneously like order. But, the empty containers I leave in my car during lunch always seem to disappear the next morning, and I wonder who that was. Truthfully, I don’t think I can write a poem about you. I don’t think I can sit down and really think out a series of words, thoughts, and emotions I want to convey into a piece of paper. The pen is my sword and the paper my heart; and you know that everytime I spill that ink onto pages—I cut myself in half to bleed out the feelings. But, I don’t want to bleed out. Not this time. Do you know why I can’t write about you, Jim? Maybe it’s because in this moment—I understand actions versus words. I understand the heaving of your chest as you inhale and exhale. I watch the sweet curvature of your lips poof out with each snore. The way you contort your body into a chalk outline in a murder scene—morbid, yeah, but we both know I’m a shade darker than black. I’ve thought about what to say to you on this night, and I guess these are the words I want to say. Those fucking palm trees outside the window—goddamn it I hate those things—they echo a silence that only my ears perceive as peace. I wait for you to awake so that I can nuzzle the abrasive hairs of your beard. The smell of your skin is so natural that no generic Yankee Candle scent can bottle it up at a ridiculous price.

It’s funny, you’ve stirred, and I’ve rested my legs over the top of you. Why? I guess because it’s my way of keeping you warm. It’s what you are and who you are that permits me from writing you a sonnet in honor of your presence. You ain’t a sonnet, and I’m not a peach. You’re that eccentric, Mexican man I met all those years ago. The man that always seemed to have the warmest aura and the brightest smile. The quirky, yellow-sock wearing shy guy that always calls me “prettyful” instead of beautiful. I’ve spent a lifetime writing fiction that sometimes I even get tired of my own bullshit. Speaking of that, there’s a reason why I can’t write non-fiction: no truth what ive experienced makes it long enough to reach a journal. Eventually, it all fades into obscurity, I guess. So does skin, too, and the memories that become crushed in the inevitability of mortality. But, you know something, Jim? For once, just this once, i just want to feel you, in all that you are and all that you will always be. 

Damn, mom. I wound up writing after all. You are always right in the end.