You

You

A poem by Brigid Cooley

Part I

You are the question mark at the end of my sentence,

The opportunity I never had but still somehow missed. 

You are letters I wrote but never sent. 

You are the lyrics I could never find a melody for. 

The words I didn't think to say, 

The goodbye I let slide by, 

The hug that was simply too short. 

Your compliments? 

I ponder them until I'm wearing holes in them. 

I wonder, were there lines for me to read in between, 

Or were your words just simple? 

You used say exactly what you mean. 

Time has forced our continents to break apart, 

Feelings eroding, salt water tears dripping down our hearts. 

The angles of our faces have changed, 

But I think our eyes managed to stay the same. 

You. 

You've changed, and I won't lie and say I've stayed the same. 

We...

are a perfect example of bad timing. 

Part II

I noticed your cologne first, 

and then the way you ran your hands through your hair like you were looking for something. 

Answers. 

I think you were looking for answers. 

I felt the questions you were asking without even having to hear you say them. 

You are the question mark at the end of my sentence.

I found it hard to pull my eyes away;

I haven't felt that way since I was 7. 

I want to be the person who breaks your writers block. 

I want to be the topic that drives you to the pen. 

I try to memorize the way your arms feel around me. 

I realize that, for the first time, you didn't want to let go. 

I've never wanted to let go. 

I realize the importance of timing. 

I want to be the answer to your questions.

I want to tell you to stop making a mess of your hair.

Silly, don't you know?

answers aren't found in hair. 

They're under your nose instead,

And I just happen to be shorter than you.

Part III

When I get nervous, I start spewing answers. 

Usually the answers to questions that weren't asked. 

People have always come to me for answers, so that's all I know. 

That's why I'm rambling, stumbling over my words, not saying what I'm thinking. 

I've never been all that good at thinking. 

Answers. 

What I'm thinking will result in questions if I verbalize it.  

These questions are ones that I don't have the answers for. 

I lost my cheat sheet. 

In fact, I'm not even sure if I ever had one. 

"Salt water tears sting. Did you know that?" 

"Pi equals 3.14."

"The best book for rainy days is Jane Eyre." 

"Courage is knowing who you are and not doubting yourself."

"Cowards don't talk about how they feel."

I have answers. 

But you're the question mark at the end of my sentence.

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Beginnings Are Hard

  I have rewritten this first blog post about 12 times now, and it seems as though I don't know how to start this. What I can say is that beginnings are hard. 

 I'm starting this blog because I want to write. I want to write and share what I had to say with other people, which is something that horrifies me. I'm going to have to get over that fear if I ever want to actually publish a book, which is a goal that I have, so I decided that I good way to get past that is to start a blog. 

 Saint Augustine once said: "You aspire to great things? Begin with little ones." I aspire to many great things when it comes to writing, but I'm going to take Augustine's advice and start with little ones. This blog will be for little things, like a random poem I might feel somehow obligated to share, or an opinion on some current topic, or a movie review, etc. Just little things.