Page 73 of Poetry By Dead Men
"You got it, buddy," I say, my eyes burning with unshed tears as Aaron walks away with his mom.
Writing this article has just taken on a whole new meaning.
And not just the article, but writing itself.
It’s not just a job. Not just a career or a hobby.
It’s essential to who I am in my soul. Who I want to be as a human being. It’s not just something I love, but a skill I can use to actually make a difference in people’s lives.
I can raise awareness for causes I care about, not just donate money at galas. I can explore issues that ignite a fire in my belly, not just discuss them in passing over drinks at the club. I can write poems that capture heartbreak and grief, or love and joy. Stories that make people feel less alone.
And as my angle on the article becomes sharper—Bobby’s altruistic side—I realize I don’t want to pretend anymore.
I don't want to pretend I don’t have the heart of a poet.
I just need to be brave, like Aaron.
“Hey Bobby,” I say, stopping him as he heads back to the line of people waiting for him. “You have my permission.”
He tilts his head, his eyebrows pulling in. “Permission to what?”
My cheeks heat, but I’m being brave, so I don’t look away. “You wanted to put music to my song. So you have my permission. You can have 'Poetry.'"
NOW
September 2024: Atlanta, GA
My love for you is delicate
Like the wings of a butterfly
So I'll hold you gently in my hands
When you can't take to the skies
I'll protect you when you need a rest
Let you stay here by my side
And I'll love you till my dying breath
You. My little butterfly
—A poem certainly not written by Harrison Rouchester, given to Beth Winters approximately six weeks into dating
The windows of Big Blue are open, and warm morning air floats inside along with the twitter of birds.
Bobby left at nine to make it to a recording session, but I was awake well before then. Tossing and turning as lines of poetry floated through my head.
“Sonnet 18”
“The Good Morrow”
“How Do I love thee?”
Poems all infinitely more passionate than the life I’m currently living.
Or…the one I was living.
