February 12, 2004

He writes me poetry. I'm prety sure at one point in the relationship that I expressed how truly disinterested in poetry I am. Apparently I should have repeated myself. Now I have to pretend to like his poetry because it's the only thing that he believes he's truly good at. So he'll call me;

"You've inspired me to write another poem."
"Really, how did I do that?" I ask that because I want to take notes - to assure that I don't ever do that again.
"Want to hear it?" he'll ask.
Christ.
"Sure," I say, teeth clenched.

So onward we go, him reading the poem, me holding the phone away from my ear, fishing around for a cigarette. When he finishes, like clockwork, he asks
"So was that better than the last poem?"

Well, who are we kidding? I didn't pay attention to the last poem you wrote me or the other 17 poems before that.

"Oh my God, are you kidding me? It's great! I loved it!"
"Really?"
"Yeah, seriously, you should be a writer, Josh." I always add that because the gays love to hear that they have significantly more career options than straight men - ones they can always 'fall back on'. We can be chefs if the job at the office doesn't work out. We can be a personal shopper if that accounting position is canned.

But poetry. Why poetry? Why couldn't he be a shoemaker?

"Mark, you've inspired me so I made you these sandals" Great!

Because lets face it, thats what I want in a boyfriend - footwear.