This Girl (Slammed #3)(17)
We need poems to remind ourselves of the things that really matter
To take time
A long time
To be alive for the sake of someone else for a single moment
Or for many moments
’Cause we need each other
To hold the hands of a broken person
All you have to do is meet a person
Shake their hand
Look in their eyes
They are you
We are all broken together
But these shattered pieces of our existence don’t have to be a mess
We just have to care enough to hold our tongues sometimes
To sit and listen to a very long poem
A story of a life
The joy of a friend and the grief of a friend
To hold and be held
And be quiet
So, pray
Write a postcard
Call your parents and forgive them and then thank them
Turn off the TV
Create art as best as you can
Share as much as possible, especially money
Tell someone about a very long poem you once heard
And how afterward it brought you to them
SHE WIPES ANOTHER tear from her eye when the performer steps away from the microphone. She begins clapping with the rest of the crowd, completely engrossed in the atmosphere. When she finally relaxes against me again, I take her hand in mine. We’ve been here close to two hours now and I’m sure she’s tired, based on the week she’s had. Besides, I never stay for all of the performances, since I have work on Fridays.
I begin to stand up to lead her out of the booth when the emcee makes one last appeal for performers. She turns to me and I can see her thoughts written clearly across her face.
“Will, you can’t bring me here and not perform. Please do one? Please, please, please?”
I had no intention of doing a poem tonight. At all. But oh, my God—that look in her eyes. She’s really going to make me do this, I can already tell. There’s no way I can say no to those eyes. I lean my head against the back of the booth and laugh. “You’re killing me, Lake. Like I said, I don’t really have anything new.”
“Do something old then,” she suggests. “Or do all these people make you nervous?”
She has no idea how often I perform and how natural it feels to me now. It’s almost as natural as breathing. I haven’t been nervous about taking the stage since the first time I took it five years ago.
Until now, anyway.
I lean in closer and look her directly in the eyes. “Not all of them. Just one of them.”
Our faces are so incredibly close right now; it would be so easy to do it. Just a couple more inches and I could taste her. Her smile fades and she bites her bottom lip as her gaze slowly drops to my mouth again. I can tell by the look in her eyes that she wants me to kiss her just as much. The unfamiliar nerves that have occupied my stomach have now multiplied and I’m quickly losing my self-control. As soon as I start to lean in, she clasps her hands under her chin and resumes her plea.
“Don’t make me beg.”
For a moment, I had forgotten she even asked me to perform. I pull back and laugh. “You already are.”
She doesn’t pull her hands away from her chin and she’s looking up at me with the most adorable expression. An expression I already know I’ll never be able to say no to. “All right, all right,” I say, easily giving in. “But I’m warning you, you asked.”
I pull my wallet out of my pocket and take the money out, holding it up in the air. “I’m in!”
When the emcee recognizes me, I slide out of the booth and begin making my way to the stage. I’m not prepared for this at all. Why did I not think she would ask me to perform? I should have written something new. I’ll just do my “go-to” piece about teaching. It’s easy enough. Besides, I don’t even think I’ve discussed my profession with her; this might be a fun way to do it.
I reach the stage and adjust the microphone, then look out over the audience. When we lock eyes, she perches her elbows on the table and rests her chin in her hands. She waves her flirty wave at me as her smile spreads across her face. The way she looks at me sends a pang of guilt straight to my heart. She’s looking at me right now in the same way that I’ve been looking at her.
With hope.
It hits me with that look that I shouldn’t waste this opportunity on a poem about my profession. This is my opportunity to put it all out there . . . to use my performance as a way to let her know who I really am. If her feelings for me are half what mine already are for her, then she deserves to know what she may be getting herself into.
“What’s the name of your piece tonight, Will?”
Without breaking our gaze, I look straight into her eyes from up on the stage and reply, “Death.”
The emcee exits the stage and I take a deep breath, preparing to say the words that will either make or break the possibility of a future with her.
Death. The only thing inevitable in life.
People don’t like to talk about death because
it makes them sad.
They don’t want to imagine how life will go on without them,
all the people they love will briefly grieve
but continue to breathe.
They don’t want to imagine how life will go on without them,
Their children will still grow