this is not a good poem in any way, shape or form (especially form) ... just posting for memory's sake.
***
when i played you
that Poison song
and it seemed perfect
back before I knew
exactly how fitting it was
and your name came up as wild
Rose, though you say, just,
Rose.
i wondered the truth
as we stayed up, all night, singing songs
on the call until 4 am
drunk off your smile, white, and glistening,
perfect as your makeup which you
carefully applied
each time, i saw you.
Rose.
And when i played it in the daylight
i could hear your pain
"prickly, prickly thorns"
and, later, i sent you my favorite scene
"La Vie En Rose"
we had to watch out
to make sure we didn't fall in love
with our suffering.
later, i told you
that we're taught to hate thorns
but that all beautiful things have them
that thorns are there to protect
and beautiful things need protecting
more than most
i told you about my beautiful mother
and how it made her a target
and you told me
you didn't want the world to see you
i realize now
we were singing again
so i said you could hide beside me
maybe for a while
and i wouldn't tell 'em your name.
i was low-key obsessed with names
the books i had read, as a kid
the mythology, and i told you
that to know someone's true name
was to hold magic in your hand.
until the singing stopped,
and you asked, as quiet as a promise:
"What's my true name, Nick?"
and i replied, as foolish as a footnote,
"i hope i get the chance to find out, darling."
***
