Published On: Fri, Dec 6th, 2013

The Girl Poem – Craig Scott

The Girl Poem - Craig Scott
I don’t EVER write poetry about girls,
Because personally I think it’s a little desperate and feminine.
I dislike the needy concept that you bear your soul in that fashion,
You expect that it will be well received and you’ll be crowned some lust-worthy Romeo.
But that poem could be circulated amongst ten women laughing.
So I NEVER write poetry about girls.
But you make me do things differently…
We met,
In a set of circumstances unusual to me, perhaps you.
That awkward, overly hot walk up the hill seemed to drag.
Sweat dripping down my back.
Catching glimpses of those ‘maybe hers!’
Not over-awed overall.
Then there it was…
A peach, maybe pink, debatably burnt orange, perhaps salmon coat.
Above the coat – a head.
Some hair. Eyes. Nose. Mouth. Ears.
Assembled in a fashion that made you stand out like the Eiffel Tower in the Gorbals.
(That is intended as a compliment, I assure you.)
You have the biggest smile.
Like a spotless, white calcium based doormat welcoming me into this fatefully forced scenario.
So we go inside.
And there are these screens on all walls,
Football, a game too close to call,
My retinas, pupils and all other ocular machinery cannot stop from staring…
At you.
So we drink,
Making that general first date conversation.
I have to make jokes, seem mildly charming,
Leave enough of an impression without seeming alarming.
And we leave.
Walking in the cold, winding to where we split like hairs.
Forked on the road, following two different routes like Morpheus’ two pills.
I try not to look as you walk away,
Try not to text in an overly keen state like,
‘Yeah if you’re free again, just whenever mate…’
You reply.
Just like you replied earlier today when I asked if you were SURE you wanted to come and watch me read self-loathing poetry again.
And we’re here.
Me here. You there.
Us here.
And if it all ended here, so be it!
I got 6,000 kisses more than I needed!
But I’d still watch you all the way.
And if I never get to rub your back after you eat too much fried chicken,
Or give you Martial Arts clothes you can kip in,
I know. And you know.
That we knew it happened.
Hopefully no-one tells my friends about this shit.
My girl poem.

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