Gramatical Ballet (he says)

He read my writing upon request;

Then answered my queries appropriately

His thoughts:

Yes, good, but what about beauty?

What about description?

What about suspense lasting to the end?

I took his words.

Wrote my own.

But, I couldn't satisfy his suggestions,

I couldn't find any words to put together--

Or, dashed next lines;

Or, semi-coloned phrases,

To his liking

We no longer spoke about what I could do

Or, couldn't do

Or, write

Or, paint

Or, be

We just were as we were

Living together with love

And, companionship

With the side-by-side yearning of what was

And, the minute-by-minute monotony of what is

We were what life had made us

So, "Why not write about pretty things?"

"Why stick to the emo-depressive?"

"Write it sweet."

"Write it descriptive."

"Write it as you are."

But, I couldn't.

Though, I spent many nights--

Attempts lost to the backspace key

And, a "Continue" response to the delete pop-up

In the back room while the light in our bedroom shone

So, many times I danced words around my eyes

On the nights we ventured out--

"The aroma of the pretzels,

Tickling my nose,

As if to wake me in the morning with the surprise,

The sweet cinnamon rolls of breakfast in bed."

Or,

"The bustle, the rustle of the shopping bags,

The dizziness imposed by children, whipping around with joy,

Waiting in line to see the Easter Bunny,

Melting our hearts with their innocence."

None.

I could write none.

In the car he would say, "I like this song."

Puzzled, I stared

"It's about unrequited love."

So, I listened as the singer sings her words

And, I think of all the adjectives I'm living -

List them

I think of how we're connecting

The 1-800 calls aren't coming in every hour,

Leaving me peaceful

"I can finally afford a bottle of wine."

Destination--

Romance

Because

His hand, Oh,

His hand feels so pretty holding mine

And, my evening full of expectations

Leave me with a smile

Then, at home, with my glass of wine

I sit in the back room

The light from the bedroom shines through

And, my "apple-green ice cream song" is playing

With that I pretended to write

There are no sugar-filled pastries

Or, happy children smiling

Or, romantic evenings

Or, thrill of the sunset

Or, the stars

Or, sensitively, fantastic Happy Phantoms

Acting as verbalization

All I've got is the same unrequited love

And the tears in my glass

And the darkening of my lungs

And, what I write is

What it is

Not what we were,

But what we are

Independently settling

And, accepting

We are simply as everyone else--

A lack of pleasant adjectives, removing the suspense,

And, waiting for the easy-beauty that can't be held for long

But, always floats around

As a memory disguised as something that can be caught