I put myself in the category “un-dateable.”
Extraterrestrial next to your tank-top biceps,
and ungodly quarter-inch-to-fade-razor-cut.
A man who never read a book in school,
hanging on a batch of quick-print spark-notes,
both hit with sloppy yellow highlighter,
a lazy shade of sun I’ve always found tiresome.

I’ve felt worlds shift inside these ribs,
grieved in somber wombs of memoirs,
soared through Wonderland’s reverie,
wandered prismatic halls of Utopian homes.

I’ve loved and wept over figments of men
written with souls deeper than
your paper-lined pockets.

I’ve held devoted chapters in these hands,
such better lovers to find among the lines
than within your apathetic, lifeless eyes
visibly unmoved when I spoke of
Tolkien’s unrivaled language,
Bradbury’s fiery liberation,
and Gatsby’s unwavering love.

I’ll keep my alien heart near
dusty pages and gracious cups of coffee,
warmer hearths than any impartial eyes,
the dead giveaway of cold, quiet minds.

Alex Bragg – May, 2018
Edited January, 2019


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