Adriana, when I first saw you,
I had no words for your perfect dentition and demeanor.
I was told affection was a gift.
One that I wanted to toss into your orbs.
But when you're at a loss for words,
Awkward becomes the only wrapping sheet at your disposal.
I'd spill clumsy all over a letter that started and ended with
How does a boy say "Yours truly?"
To wear a decent lie or a wish with such certainty
Without chasing your aura back into the sanctum of light that bled you.
I was thirteen Adriana.
What right did you have to plunge into
the mind of a coy boy?
I spotted your aspects framed in a year book.
Weatherman predicted a heatwave that Wednesday
But there I sat; frozen.
What was a boy to say?
How does a painfully shy fellow vie for the girl he met two weeks ago
When more virile and magnetic boys blather, two classrooms away.
I tried admitting
That I was caught in a typhoon of
But you sat all pretty on the other side of this confessional.
Your face buried in Achebe's 'things fall apart'
Made me cower and unsure
Covered in sweat ;
Fearing that my adrenaline filled torso would fall apart
like a Jericho or a chain of dominoes at the sound of your trumpeted "NO"
So I wrote you poems incognito
You always liked merging your lips with each line you read
While I silently watched you fall in love with my silhouette.
Adriana, I turned nineteen.
Old enough to drink as much gin as I please.
But I'm still intoxicated with your mien and the sight of your grin.
You didn't change much,
Because you are a novice at shedding off what makes you lovable.
Found you on a paseo
You were dressed in muumuu
Bathe in the marigold tribute the western sky paid you.
I spent a month cultivating my porcelain face just for you.
I grew a moustache hoping to look like some Jean Pierre
The movies told me that Love was born and bred in Paris
So If I use words like ' vous êtes belle',
Perhaps you'd take me seriously.
Perhaps you'd spot me on this battlefield of Loving
With firearms that have sworn to caress and keep you warm.
I'm a different kind of soldier;
Carrying hyacinths and not bullets in my bandolier.
I'd strike your heart but I'm of poor aim
And for a second time I watched you drift away.
Adriana, I'm turning twenty eight in a week.
Will the world ever know if I learned to brew
enough roars to scare and maul my sheepishness?
If I step out of a cemetery, wearing a black suit,
holding a rose,with a forlorn visage
It means I buried my affection for you
I stepped out of a cathedral, wearing a black suit,
with your white frame beside me, holding a bouquet of roses.
-And cameras caught you laughing.
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