But I Have Yet To Meet Him

A poem written not by me, but by the once most important person in my life. It's the most beautiful thing I have ever written, and it's mine from him. The genders are switched, but it's all the same.

I have yet to meet him.

To share his soul and warmth and light. 

But I know his wants,

His needs,

I know his dimpled smile.

His lonely eyes through foreign photographs

With flecks of dark and raw hope.

The crystal ships dripping with ice,

Falling through svelte mocha curves.

And dark waves falling to his back,

The roll like waves and I drown

In the water

The port in my city. 

And when I am no longer a girl,

But a woman, 

I will cross it to meet him.

Cruise the corrupt ship he wrote.

On his sun-stripped Mexican evenings,

While I lay half asleep, a yawn,

On foggy British mornings laced with raindrops.

Peering at his words over the rim of my teacup,

His voice so clear, so rich in my mind,

Yet I have never heard it.

Aside from the drowsy evenings in rain,

Dabbling in prose and the cold biting my fingertips,

Wondering what he is thinking and feeling. 

Lost in horror and crime and mysteries, which make more sense to me than romance.

Until my three teachers unravel their creations.

Stories of heartbreak and perfectly sculpted.

And he is as beautiful as his stories.

And the shine I know is there in his eyes,

The shine 2 o'clock classrooms steal from him.

When reality takes hold of him and grips tight,

Wrapping it's merciless arms around him,

When I want to hold him in mine.

To share his soul and warmth and light.

But I have yet to meet him. 

Author's Note

The gender roles are switched here from the original poem, so when it says 'he' it should be 'she' or when it says 'woman/girl' it should be 'man/boy', in case some of it might not make sense.