To Read Her Poems

she wasn’t as alive

as she thought 

she was

but none of us were

at that age

i guess 

i could say

she had more life

in her

than most

freshman year was hell

it was a good hell

but it was hell

all the same

no one had any

direction

back then

so we did what we

finally could do

guzzle booze

and have time with strangers

young

wild

and unchained

we met at 

an open mic

i was there supporting

a buddy

who plucked a guitar

and could drink

hemmingway

under the table

she was there 

to read her poems

which led to a long night 

of talking

drinking

and well,

you know the rest

she read machiavelli 

wrote poetry

preferred painting to

a night downtown

i was into her

and poetry

rum

live music

we had each other

for a while

she taught me

the ways

i would carry with me

forever

and i gave her

the studious devotion

of my body

but once the steam

simmered

and the dream 

slithered

from our lips

down our legs

onto the floor

We realised

We were and

We weren't who

We wanted to be

and that was 

the last kiss

i ever gave

to a poet.