Thoughts from the Crowne Plaza, or “This Is Not a Love Poem”
Posted by Lauren Yates | Filed under Poetry, Print
I lied. I didn’t mean for untruths to slip from my lips; I just couldn’t help it. The shape was so effortless, and you always said I was too quiet. You’d never know the volumes my hands speak as my voice unfolds into your ears, groggy yet manic. Maybe you can hear my hands through the telephone the same way you eavesdrop on my smile. I never gave you permission: to look me in the eyes, to be polite, to see shades of green in every multiple of three. Complete the picture. Treat me like I don’t exist. Did I disappear, or was I just never born? It’s up to you. But as long as I’m not around, explore what you could have been. Dance to love letters meant for others, sweaty and intrusive, to the beat of explosions in the sky. Trade hope for happenstance, and never forget to sing your own back up. Forgive me. I get carried away sometimes, which means I’m here in some capacity no matter what you say. So it isn’t up to you. I guess I lied. But at the time, I meant exactly what I said.
