This Girl (Slammed #3)(16)

“Lake?” I continue tracing up and over her hand with my fingertips. “I don’t know what it is about you . . . but I like you.” I interlock her fingers with mine and turn my attention toward the stage so she doesn’t think I expect a response from her. I smile when I see her grab for her glass and quickly down her chocolate milk. She definitely feels it, too.

When the sac walks up to the stage, Lake’s whole demeanor changes. It’s almost as if she forgets I’m even here. She leans forward attentively when the woman begins her piece and she doesn’t remove her attention from the performer the entire time. I’m so drawn to the emotion in Lake’s expression that I can’t take my eyes off her. As I watch her, I attempt to decipher the reason behind the intense connection I feel with her. It’s not like we’ve spent that much time together. Hell, I hardly even know her. I still don’t even know what her major is, what her middle name is, much less her birthday. Deep down, I know none of it matters. The only thing that matters right now is this moment, and this moment is definitely my sweet for the day.

As soon as the sac is finished with her poem, Lake pulls her hand from mine and wipes tears from her eyes. I put my arm around her and pull her to me. She accepts my embrace and rests her head against my shoulder.

“Well?” I ask. I rest my chin on top of her head and stroke her hair, taking in another wave of vanilla. I’m beginning to love the smell of vanilla almost as much as southern accents.

“That was unbelievable,” she whispers.

Unbelievable. That was the exact word I used to describe it to my father the first time I saw it.

I fight the urge to lift her chin and pull her lips to mine, knowing I should wait until we’re in private. The need is so overwhelming, though; my heart is at war with my conscience. I lean forward and press my lips against her forehead and close my eyes. It’ll have to do for now.

We sit in the same embrace as several more poets perform. She laughs, she cries, she sighs, she aches, and she feels every single piece performed. By the time the final poet for round one comes onto the stage, it’s obvious that it’s too late. I was hoping to put everything out in the open between us before things became more serious. Little did I know it would happen this fast. I’m too far-gone. There’s no way I can stop myself from falling for this girl now.

I keep my attention on the stage, but I can’t help but watch Lake out of the corner of my eye as she watches the performer prepare at the microphone. She’s holding her breath again as he steps up to the microphone.

“This poem is called A Very Long Poem,” the performer says. Lake laughs and leans forward in her seat.

This poem is very long

So long, in fact, that your attention span

May be stretched to its very limits

But that’s okay

It’s what’s so special about poetry

See, poetry takes time

We live in a time

Call it our culture or society

It doesn’t matter to me ’cause neither one rhymes

A time where most people don’t want to listen

Our throats wait like matchsticks waiting to catch fire

Waiting until we can speak

No patience to listen

But this poem is long

It’s so long, in fact, that during the time of this poem

You could’ve done any number of other wonderful things

You could’ve called your father

Call your father

You could be writing a postcard right now

Write a postcard

When was the last time you wrote a postcard?

You could be outside

You’re probably not too far away from a sunrise or a sunset

Watch the sun rise

Maybe you could’ve written your own poem

A better poem

You could have played a tune or sung a song

You could have met your neighbor

And memorized their name

Memorize the name of your neighbor

You could’ve drawn a picture(or, at least, colored one in)

You could’ve started a book

Or finished a prayer

You could’ve talked to God

Pray

When was the last time you prayed?

Really prayed

This is a long poem

So long, in fact, that you’ve already spent a minute with it

When was the last time you hugged a friend for a minute?

Or told them that you love them?

Tell your friends you love them

. . . no, I mean it,

tell them

Say, I love you

Say, you make life worth living

Because that is what friends do

Of all of the wonderful things that you could’ve done

During this very, very long poem

You could have connected

Maybe you are connecting

Maybe we’re connecting

See, I believe that the only things that really matter

In the grand scheme of life are

God and people

And if people are made in the image of God

Then when you spend your time with people

It’s never wasted

And in this very long poem

I’m trying to let a poem do what a poem does:

Make things simpler

We don’t need poems to make things more complicated

We have each other for that