Love Poems

I can fall in love fast, if it were in the Olympics I would be a medalist guaranteed. I'm real fast and I fancy myself a poet, maybe not Allen Ginsberg or William Blake, but a poet. This means that within five minutes of the crush forming, I'm busy writing the love poem in my head.

I fall in love often: baristas, lab partners, girls ordering dark beers or talking about fantasy novels have me head over heels faster than I can stutter an introduction. While I'm stuttering I'm writing the love poem. Planning it out in my head, calculating my approach to the poem she'll never hear or if she does, she'll never know it was about her.

There is strategy to these poems: go big or go home. I know how to go big. I've got so many lines popping out my head it's hard to concentrate. It takes me 5 minutes to answer the question "you want room for cream?"

When I'm asked that question I'm not thinking about anything going in my coffee. I'm thinking 'If you were a princess I'd be your mario. No amount revolving walls of flame hammer throwing koopas or slowly shot giant bullets with angry faces could stop me from storming the castle and saving you from Bowser.'

In my head I make outrageous promises like climbing mountains crowded with angry monkeys wielding switch blades and monkey-sized broad swords, or swimming shark infested seas wearing a wool sweater soaked in seal blood.

Someday, when I finally find someone who's writing poems about me in her head, they'll be no use for hyperbole. I'll say unimpressive things that are actually true. "I probably wouldn't walk 500 miles just to fall down at your door, but I would walk 5 or 6 miles just to watch the Big Lebowski.

"Your smile doesn't remind me of a sunset, but I do think it's pretty
and I'm willing to make a complete fool of myself just to see it."

Someday I'll write a love poem that's true. I won't even have to use my imagination. I'll actually read it to the person who inspired it; and when the girl at Starbucks, or whatever locally owned coffee shop I happen to be at, asks me if I want room for cream. I won't pause. I won't look deep into her eyes. I won't try and think of any romantic analogies. I won't think at all. I'll say casually, instinctively, "no, thank you" then turn and try and locate the sports section of the Seattle Times.