A Poem I Wrote for My Hypothetical Husband While Stoned by Ari Lohr
hi. nice to meet you. my name is Ari. better known as the poet, known as the guy who saw you on tinder once, swiped right, wrote three half-assed similes about you and told you that i was a writer over text. when i say i’m a writer, i mean that i’m awkward. when i say that i’m awkward, i mean i will double-text you a love poem.
apparently, i’m not that good at first dates.
hiding all your flirting in mixed metaphors
because you’re too scared to talk to people
is a terrible way to continue a conversation
or establish any sort of human connection.
some might say i’m a prick but i prefer the term rosebush. i’m cute, flowery, and pink, but at the same time i’m not afraid to cut a bitch. i am the type of guy who calls themselves badass, but gets embarrassed when their cat sees them naked after a shower. sometimes, i fantasize about gravity, write some weird metaphor about saturn, or love, or beg for you to dip me in your wedding ring arms like watch this, like listen to this rising pulse reach crescendo, like each heartbeat i give is a manifesto to breathing, like i love you so much i cannot breathe without being in your orbit, like sometimes, the difference between cardiac arrest and love is simply how poetic it is to write about. when i tell you that no one can write you like i do, i mean when you comfort me in the middle of an anxiety attack, i thank you by exhaling despite being breathless at your touch, by holding hurricanes in my chest and calling you my storm chaser, by not knowing what else to do but make noise, because indecision is the loudest form of silence i know. in that moment, i will tell you i love you for the first time that is not a poem. but what is this if not a poem? what is love if not the lonely language of ink? what is a poem if not the home of the heart’s most violent vocabulary? give me a pen or make me a god – i will love with the same penmanship. when i tell you i love you, i mean that in some stanza, somewhere, we are still sharing our first kiss. that in the space of three lines, our hearts harmonize in 1000 different dialects and swell to the silent song of the same supernova every second. when i write, the paper sings. with a single sonnet, i could serenade the sky to sleep ‘till this night lasts forever. there is no eye in this storm, only us. somewhere, i once saw a bottomless pit and jumped, which is to say that i am always falling for you.
when the sun rises and the ink dries, i’ll press my ear to the page and hear your name thaw in the warm morning air. i’ll text you and say i’m a writer, when, really, i am just braver over a keyboard than in person. i’ll be so crazy and chaotic and weird, but i’ll cherish every minute i spend searching for the right words. when i say that i’m a writer, i mean that every day, i greet the morning with ink, close my eyes and reach out and again, you are right here. i am always too awkward to say anything except
hi. nice to meet you. you know my name already.
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