Give Her Fiction.

     I would never go as far as to say I was a poet. However, I do take a creative writing course in school that forces me to occasionally spread my creative wings.  That means I have written a couple poems now and today, in my first ever blog post, I will share one.

    First off I would like to point out that I'm a little fascinated with relationship dynamics. Perhaps it is because I haven't been able to keep a relationship going for more than 1.5 years. The ones I'm in tend to burn bright and fast, before quickly turning to ash.  The reasons for this always seem different, even though some of the same issues are always present.
  
    In any case, this poem dealt with one of those issues that I see repeated in some of my relationships and the romances of others: the pressure of living up to fictions (or really, failing to do so)  and the rather fantastic, unrealistic identities we create for each other.

Give Her Fiction

At first, all we would do was talk.

She would speak to me as though

I was the only person left to hear her.

She would listen to me intently

and we would begin to share.

She would tell me stories.

They were like predictions for our lives,

of adventures we hadn’t yet had,

near our home and in faraway places.

They were tales of our future told in the past tense.

I, in turn, would dismantle our past

so that I could re-write our history.

I’d turn the mundane into the extraordinary,

with misremembered hardships

that we had only overcome together.

We didn’t live a lie, per se.

The truth was what we made it.

She would scoff:

“Isn’t that true of everything?”

And laugh in the face of reality.

I loved her enough to continue the charade,

to join her daily exercise:

conjuring up the story of us.

The more that was said by her and me,

the less I could live up to.

There was a difference between I and the fiction of “I.”

“I” was madly in love with her.

And she was madly in love with “He.”

And he and I were no longer the same.

And she preferred the fiction.

Knowing that truth would never be enough,

I transcribed for her a lifetime

and placed the fiction in her hands.

She embraced the story and kissed me goodbye,

And I knew I would not be missed.