Poetry

"I never get poetry."

My voice startles her and she looks up from the collection of poems she was reading while I was asleep. I woke up because of the setting sun shining in my eyes through the open window. She's leaning into a huge pile of pillows, her hair still tangled and messy. H. gives me a smile.

"Poetry is like sex." She exclaims, while turning the page.

In my still sleepy mood, I wrestle my head under her arm and lean on her breast. "Hmm. Explain, please." I yawn.

She adjusts her arm and twirls her index finger in my hair. I close my eyes as she starts to explain.

"Before you can do it you have to decide what position or 'structure' your going to do it in. Like; Missionary would be... a sonnet, or the sixty-nine position might be a Limerick or a quickie could be Haiku. The woman on top... perhaps a Prose and free style... And the way they fill in the structure is almost always a mixture of what they see and what they feel."

In moments like this I know exactly why I love this girl.