The Poet In Me

The poet in me came alive today. I hiccuped a memory of my friend and I walking near Union Square in San Fran, and he mentioned something about my poetry. My Poetry? Now he's the poet. Not necessarily me. Atleast, not yet.

Well, I recited one of my many love letters/essays to the brother in the office. I asked him if he wanted to hear something? I told him that it was my unrequited love, distilled, on paper. He nodded his head.

It was just how I dreamt it to be. My first poetry recital, among files and books, printers and computers and a water cooler and a coffee machine. Not the physical atmosphere was dope, but me! For the moment I was on Def Poetry. Spot light on moi; hands gesturing in a 'nahmean? type flair. My cadence maintained like staccato coughs. It was organic and rugged. It was a hearty audience of just one, Brother Abdul Haqq. He offered mad energy. I felt that I was being felt, feel me?

I was like:

My love! What is that emptiness in your eyes?
I feel you for days and months and years after we part, yet there is a absence in your eyes...
Did you know: The day I become real in your heart is my food.
That hopefully, you think of me as hella cool...

Around that moment Abdul Haqq starts cracking up. He's like, catching his breath, are you in love or might I suggest, infatuation?

(sidenote: I never considered this to be infatuation, but...)

I'm like: Hell to the no...

My final answer is yes, though.

I'm like, Brother, it's not funny. Don't laugh. It's rilly rilly not funny. As a matter of fact, for your information, it's quite painful and lonely, okay, dammit.

Then he takes his big hands, reaches towards me and places them on my face. His index fingers presses onto my temples and begins to massage them in a circular motion. It feels good, relaxing. Then he's like: your pain and loneliness are self-imposed. Before I get a chance to ask him to explain, he goes: you haven't created any room for that type of love you want so bad.

You have got to be kidding me, right? I'm always wide open (not literally) for love.

I'm like, how you know? You don't know me!!! Dude, as my Puerto Rican friends would say: you cressie, man...

I'm like India.Arie, ready for love...

We get it going into this long convo about love, self-love, men, the Black experience, the Muslim experience, the Black Muslimah experience. He's trying to school me. I'm taking notes. Useful information. Telling me to follow my heart. I'm like, my heart is often nervous and shy and doesn't know what to say. He's like, let Allah pick him for you. I'm like, bet.

I'm still in love though. And, working on another poem.