“to be brutally honest I don’t know what I would like most, to be naked with you or to be lost in conversation, but to simply be in your company would be simply nice” Part of an email from a (sadly) once-off lover.
It would come as no surprise to learn of my respect and love for words. I write a blog. I perform poetry. I’m never without a book to read and notepad to jot in. I’m an English Lit major and a public speaker.
But I am also a woman whose number one aphrodisiac is conversation. It doesn’t have to be intellectual, per se (although that works!): it just has to be engaging. And I take to heart the things that men say to me. I don’t mean that I necessarily believe them, or even think that HE believes them. I just fully embrace the fact that he has sculpted lovely words for my ears. Lie to me and I’ll hate you, but lie to me with poetry and I will love-hate you.
The last nine months have been what I call “Love in the Time of Disappointments”. I have been let down regularly and spectacularly. More than usual. Yet as I sit here tonight, pondering today’s poem, all I can think about is the beautiful words that some of these erstwhile lovers have given me, such as the quote above.
I want them back. But do I want the men or their words?
I’m a Good Listener
I always listen to the words. All of them.
Soak them up like a sponge in a puddle of spilt coffee.
I read all the signs and symbols and write my semiotic study of their hearts
The more they use them, the more I love them. The words become the men.
And the men become the words.
And in the beginning, there is only the words.
It’s not what they say: it’s the way that they say it.
Oh give me a lover who uses the subjunctive.
And knows where to put a gerund.
He can have the biggest cock in the known universe.
But if he calls my twat a “pussy”, I shall throw the full weight of Roget
At his infantile head.
Use your words, baby.
Use them. Hard and fast and crazy and eloquent.
Leave your wife. Ditch your girlfriend. Play hooky from work.
And come and talk to me.