You’re More Than Just Poetry

Sophia Sinclair

I had been drinking cabernet sauvignon, so it isn’t fair to say I had no help, but my nerves melted off when you came in and sat on my couch. I had been anticipating this meeting all day and my stomach was in knots. It was.

We jumped right into the real things, because small talk was a filler we had no use for. We drank wine together and then time haphazardly fell from my hands. It was 8, then it was 9. 10, 11:30.

We went to a small bar on Main Street, one that I had lived five minutes from my whole life, but had never stepped foot in. Having you in this new compartment in my already existing world felt special, and right.

Alcohol hitting my veins left the night feeling a little blurry, but when I woke up the next morning I couldn’t shake the feeling of the excitement tied to blooming love. Was it too soon to say love? Don’t know, don’t care. My face still hurt from how much we laughed.

I remembered sipping coronas with you and narrating the lives of the other bar-goers. A favorite game of mine that was even more fun with a mate. I remember wanting to initially order my signature drink- double vodka with coke, hold the coke. But even in a drunken state, I stopped myself. This was a night of new traditions, after all.

We played rock paper scissors to decide who would go to the bathroom first and who would watch our things. I forgot how good it felt to laugh. To be careless. To be a kid in a grown up place. Being next to you in that bar felt like a nostalgia I didn’t know existed. Not a sad one, a happy one. Is nostalgia for the future a thing?

Anyway, I don’t know what to make of this and I’m not sure I should even try. There’s a scariness and vulnerability in meeting someone like you. I realized that this is what it feels like to have a stake in something, in someone. This is what it feels like to have something to lose. A beautifully tragic catch 22.

What do you do when the majority of your lovers have been late night secrets and whispers in bars? When your past ‘loves’ were bruises waiting to happen? What do I do with you, who feels like fresh air? I don’t know what it means to have a healthy love, and I’m banking on trying to find out.

And I promise you- you’re more than just poetry. But I’d be lying to say I’m not checking to see if you’re real, when I turn to you and touch your arm in the middle of the night. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

22 year old black coffee enthusiast. psychology major. animal lover. string cheese eater.

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