His Question To Me

Our evening was scintillating. I smiled often, enjoying how well we vibe and his easy flow with me. Then he asked me, "Do you write poetry?" I smiled at him and replied: “The poetry I write is few and far between. Be it simple or complex. Because it flows through my mind with little pause for me to write it down, but I’d love to have the blessing of being able to drown in the ink of my words. So writing? Physically? No. But I do think poetry. I think poetry. The poetry I think is usually inspired in the moment. It can hard for me to pull the poem from my mind but I don’t condone it. I enjoy them. The poem is usually fast and occasionally deep but doesn’t seep well enough within me to remember. If it comes during the day, trust it’ll be forgotten. Like a fallen cotton ball on the bathroom floor or a scientists’ old invention sitting in the corner, beginning to rust. If the poem comes and flows thru the night, I enjoy its duration like my favorite song in the 1st or 2nd stage of REM. Usually only lasting until I reach the brim of an approaching dream. I know these poems will eventually be retained if I catch a fleeting one and I write it until its done and adorning the pages of a future work. So I don’t sweat the poems that escape me, nor the ones I’m confident will be caught. I just enjoy the poems I think, that are subconsciously stored, but consciously forgotten in the morning.” He smiled at me, realizing my witty reply and said, "I envy the man who's ring is adorning you right hand."