He says tell me about your writing?
I think to myself that he's asking for a piece of my soul the key to a secret treasure box that's been hidden away. But as the laminated menus create a barrier between us, and he sips the fizzy cherry cola in the dim lights of this quiet restaurant, I think to myself that I kind of like this guy. I almost feel like he should know pieces of me that no one else does. And so as if I've grabbed the steak knife that sits between us I prepare to spill my secrets like guts.
Even before I speak his eyes seem to tell me that I could say anything to him, and it's be safe in his arms.
I take a breath and fiddle with the hand-held device in my pocket most people use it for snapping pictures of mediocre meals, catching moments in time, scrolling listlessly through photos of other people's lives, mindless conversation. But not me. What lives behind the screen in secrets notes are stories of lives unseen.
His question chants in my ear, and I wonder if when I tell him my story if he'll become my apostle, my follower, my first and only fan, a believer in the passion I call my works.
Well I wouldn't say that I have the talent of Shakespeare or anything like that. Who would? He was a God. I bow to his accomplishments. Funny thing is I don't think I could compare myself to any writer of old. Not Brontee, or lord Byron, Robert frost, or even Edgar Allen Poe. And maybe that's because I have an odd case of imposter syndrome. I've spent years looking for a cure but there's been not breakthrough's. Or perhaps it's because I'm in a class of my own. In a wilderness all alone. Not because I'm something special, mostly because I'm a writer lost in a sea of better poets. A wildflower in a field of roses.
I think my writing belongs not to one genre.
Because who could ever describe themselves as one thing?
I think of all the melancholy madness of mess I scribble on old scraps of paper if to one category it must be owned to it might be called almost romantic. Not tragic enough to be called depressing, not funny enough to be seen as comedic, not loving enough to be called heart-warming. The poem's I write are melodies with highs and low and sympathetically written rhymes.
Describe my writing?
I'd say it was crash in a ballet.
A bouquet of dead flowers. Once beautiful, once something that was almost perfect. I think if there were two words that I'd have to describe my writing with it would be Melancholy Mess. Yes that's exactly how I'd describe it.
I look up and the cherry cola that fizzed is empty, nothing but ice left in it's place. The booth in front of me is empty. My date has disappeared. I suppose I could have said something simple instead of this rant. Then maybe he might have stayed. He could have been the one, I shrug who finds true love online dating anyway. Call me old fashion but there's something desperate about swiping right. When I'd done it myself I'd been desperate.
This was how it always went. Guys wanted normal girls. Girls who paint there nails red, and sing along to Taylor swift, calling her the greatest writer to have ever lived. Guys want girls who dream of white picket fences, and whose pin interest boards are lined with their imaginary wedding days.
I'm slowly learning that guys don't want girls fueled by their own webbed thoughts. Who thrust themselves into depressive lows, because,'that's when writing gets good.'
They don't want girls who stick their nose up to Taylor swift and only know the songs of unrated bands with deep voices and sad notes.
He could have been the one, for someone just not for me.
I wanted to fall in love tonight, and I almost did. He could have become my love-story muse. But instead he'll be my heartbreak muse. Just like all the others. The new inspiration to my arts. Another dead flower to be tucked into the bouquet of others. I lean into the corner of the booth, and wave over the waiter. I order a cherry cola for myself, something to eat and shoo her away. I lean into the booth, listening to the sound of the fizzing in my ear. I let the dim light's of the restaurant cover me. My thumbs slide against the screen of my phone, the one with notes hidden in different pathways. And I think to myself here goes another Melancholy Melody.
My favorite genre.