Page 70 of Poetry By Dead Men
I let you let me in
Then I let you walk away
Now I don’t know who I am
I think I lost myself that day
—An excerpt from "Prayer of the Lost," written and performed by Robert Beckett
"What about this one by Yeats?" Bobby asks, a stack of poetry books in front of him. He’s gotten the idea that a song inspired by a famous poem would be a hit, similar to the one I wrote for my class assignment so long ago, and he's been obsessed with the idea for days. So much so that he forced us to stop at Parnassus Books this morning to browse for inspiration on our way out of Nashville.
"How many loved your moments of glad grace, and loved your beauty with love false or true? But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, and loved the sorrows of your changing face."
A lump forms in my throat. “I don’t think that one’s right,” I say, even though it’s a favorite of mine.
Because you had a pilgrim soul once, too,my subconscious says.Before Harrison.The thought makes my stomach twist into knots, but I swallow past it.
As if I summoned him, my phone rings, his face popping up on the screen, but I send it to voicemail.
“It’s too heavy for radio,” I continue.
"Hmmm." Robert flips through several pages. “What about Sylvia Plath?”
"Absolutely not. Too sad." I crinkle my nose. "What’s the vibe you’re going for?" I ask, trying to pretend I’m less interested than I am. I don’t want Bobby to know how excited thinking about this song has me. How it’s inspired parts of my manuscript.
I’ve stayed up late the past two nights reading through books of poetry, the words not only soothing my soul and softening the jagged pieces of my wounded self-esteem, but sparking my creativity.
Bobby stretches, and it takes every bit of my self-control to not examine the way his muscles ripple with the movement so I can immortalize the sheer masculine beauty of it in a poem.
He leans forward, tenting his fingers. “I'm going for a feeling.” His voice is soft, almost wistful, as he looks out the window. He’s still for a moment, and I can tell his mind has wandered somewhere far away. He shakes his head. “I don't know how to describe it… It’s this all-consuming, wholly encompassing love. Not lust or infatuation or passion. I’m talking about loving someone to their very core.”
His words rip out one of the stitches in my heart, and a wave of sorrow gushes out, so strong, it feels like I might bleed out.
Isn’t that whateverylove story should be like?
It’s certainly not with Harrison.
Maybe that kind of love only lives in poetry and fairytales. In fiction. Maybe it doesn’t exist in real life.
Bobby meets my gaze, his eyes filling with a heavy sorrow just as intense as the grief weeping from my own heart.
When he speaks again, his voice is gritty. "I'm looking for poems that feel the same as the way we felt about each other. Before, you know?Thatkind of love."
I press my lips together, forcing down the anguish trying to drown me. I knowexactlywhat he means.
“I've never read a poem like that,” I say, almost a whisper.
“I have,” he says, taking out his wallet and putting it on the table between us. “Your song.”
My heart clenches, and I look away. I don’t want to think about my song.
I don't want the glaring reminder that a love like Bobby’s describingdoesexist.
Or…it did.
“It’s still in there, you know. The song,” he says, nodding at the wallet. “It’s traveled the world with me. I haven't performed a single show without it. I’m not sure I even could at this point.”
Another stitch rips away, and the stab of pain in my chest makes it hard to breathe. “Maybe you should just put that to music,” I say, standing up. My body begs me to flee—to get out of this conversation before I’m pulled too deeply back into my memories, but Bobby stops me.
