Sweet Betelgeuse, if love could be measured in a cup, I’d give you nine plus a half, put aside seven for the rest and keep nothing for the one I keep failing to forget. But as it stands tonight, like it did yesterday, he, with all his defects - of which, there are countless to add - scoops up my frayed intents with the inviting ladle of his knack, adds a pinch of misery to my certitude's crumbling crème brûlée, and under preheated machinations, manages to keep my contemplations all to himself instead.
I was once asked if I could go back in time, which famous dead person would I ask out on a date and I promptly picked Isaac Asimov and if you have read the Foundation series you wouldn’t need a “because…?”.
But then, I read Emily Dickinson. While I am aware that I am not very good at writing poetry, it’s also been true that what I really like, and by that I don’t mean social media likes, tends to fall under the general agreement of it being exceptionally good. So it’s not like my taste necessarily falls in the realm of eccentricity. Nor am I a contrarian just for the sake of it. But still, even after having read and liked brilliant poems by famous poets and other times by fellow writers, I have found that there are very few people whose poetry elicits anything beyond the simple action of the verb ‘like’ and even fewer are those who manage to do so consistently.
Dickinson’s writing has a way of inhabiting my attention few things or people do. So, I think I’ll change my answer. If I could go back in time, I would ask Emily out on a date. Maybe I’d start by telling her that I am Nobody. 🙂