YOU'RE ACCIDENTAL POETRY

WORDS: KAI WILSON '16

IMAGE: RUBY LANG '17

IMAGE: RUBY LANG '17

Noises outside rooms. Water in a cup but not in a bottle. Smudges. Silverware falling doesn’t remind me of you, but the noise it makes does. Stray dogs. Tall people, but not tall things. Except waterfalls. Tripping and slipping, but only when no one is there to watch. Your Valentines Day present doesn’t remind me of you. Seeing you doesn’t remind me of you, it reminds me of someone else that I walked by once at a sparsely attended soccer game; there for someone and about to talk on the phone. The sound of all cars driving. Ice when it’s not in a cup. Jackets, for the most part. Shoelaces don’t remind me of you, except that we tied them differently. Now, differently tied shoelaces will remind me of you. Middle aged men wearing old loafers. Laundry. Detergent, of course. Songs that are stuck in my head remind me of you. Not the songs part though, the stuck part. A certain color between blue and purple. Putting things in a backpack and putting a backpack on. Sunsets after the last slivers of sun set. The hour between four and six reminds me of wanting you, but not you. Waking up, I’m reminded to forget you. But in waking up, I’m reminded. Scratchy noses. Not doing things. Empty walls and the way I say candy. Baby talk. Baby, talk…

 

I told you daffodils are my favorite flower but you never gave them to me but now they remind me of you.

I told you daffodils were my favorite flower and you never gave them to me and now they remind me of you.

I told you daffodils are my favorite flower and you never gave them to me but now they remind me of you.

 

Wait, here I have it…

I told you daffodils were my favorite flower but you never gave them to me and now they remind me of you.

 

Anything I see in my periphery. The beginning of an orgasm. Returning anywhere, even if I had never been there with you. Fat people don’t remind me of you. Colors, names and touches that I can’t classify. High school reminds me of you even though we met this year. You’re in my dreams but they don’t remind me of you. Sunburns in winter. Not being hungry but eating. Imagining someone seeing their own reflection in their glasses reminds me of you. Sad movies, but only if I decide not to watch them. Wanting to be outside of a room. You don’t remind me of my father or my brother, except when you laugh and then you remind me of myself. Crossing a sidewalk and walking through a doorway. Kissing a girl would remind me of you, especially if she looked like me. Kissing a boy wouldn’t. Peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth. If someone were chasing me I think it would remind me of you. The walk between two homes. When the Internet isn’t connecting it reminds me of you. Soup has, but didn’t have, so not had, the potential to remind me of you. I think grilled cheeses will remind me of you, but I haven’t eaten one yet. All the things I called favorite remind me of you. Nails that need to be cut. Walks in the dark. Airports and airplanes. Out of season strawberries.

You once asked me why I was looking at you weird. I smiled and shrugged and kept looking at you. You asked if you had chocolate in the corners of your mouth and I said yes, but that’s not why I’m looking at you. You wiped the chocolate with your shirt and asked why I was still looking at you weird. I told you that I always look at you like you have chocolate in the corners of your mouth and isn’t that what love is? I kept looking, so you thought there was more chocolate, so you kept wiping, so I stopped looking.

I knew you were so accidental.

But I didn’t know it would become so poetic.