Sircharlesthepoet

A love poem for someone who cannot love back

New York City is strange.
We think we’re chasing a dream
when we can’t even chase a train
to get to where we’d like.

I know this poem
had a long time coming.

The wind always blows against me when rushing.
I’ve always found that to be idiomatic.
It makes sense when one looks deeper
but by itself it’s senseless. It’s Poetry.

A lady steps out of a car and swiftly rushes to a door
guarding a tall, rusted, golden building.
I thought it was you.

Like I said, some things do not make sense
but we push them.

My head was down, shielding from the snow.
How did I know it was you?

This poem
had a long time coming.

I’ve always wondered
why the local and express trains
run at night as they both make local stops.
Shouldn’t one be removed?
Wouldn’t that cause less traffic?

There are some things in this world that are so absurd
we must live with them; force ourselves to call them norms.
They do not make sense. Yet, we push them

just for the ease of our lives.

Falling in love with you is so easy.
No effort. No crime. Just the first time,
the soul is yours.
Take what’s power from all men;
tall men; pride mounting heaven.

Today’s the first time I’ve ever seen people use umbrellas
when it’s snowing. I’d say strange but it’s more novel.
And what a good idea, right?

In French, the word for umbrella is parapluie
the word for an umbrella, when used under the sun
— yes, I know, quite strange — is parasol.
If para meant “protect” — protect from rain; protect from sun — 
I wonder what the word for an umbrella in the snow would be…

I’m starting to realize that confessing your love is more selfish than effective.
We see someone. We like someone.
Then we give them our feelings to deal with.
And then what? What are they to do with it? What do you expect?

Imagine waking up, fresh and well experienced in your young age.
Then, upon stepping outside to in-take a breath of fresh air, you find a baby.
In waiting. In a basket. On your doorstep. What then?
Foster care? Cops? I guess I’m a parent now? Hit up grandma or mom?

It’s not so simple.

I’m in love with you, Dela.
Sometimes, I swear you see the way it glows in my eyes
when I look at you. But you always smile,
rub the side of my face — did you know how cold,
yet soft and warm, your palm is?

Then you’d say something about friendship.
Hug me.

The other day, I talked to a lady who is from Haiti.

Being Haitian in foreign land, we shared what glued us together.
She told me I left my country too early. So, I don’t know anything

I feel cheated each time I remember she’s right.

Lately, I’ve been feeling like I gave up
my country for foreign soil.
But how can I lose something I never had?

Since the time I first saw you,
I knew I would give up
my everything to be with you.
Except, I can’t. 

Have you ever heard the stories? The character finally arrives at the “trophy” that they’ve been chasing for however long. But when it comes to making the decision

I don’t think I can do it.

Each time I see you, it feels like the first time in that darkly lit room.
I still look at you like a trophy that doesn’t belong to me
nor anyone else. We’re not worthy.

Still, I find it humorous that I can’t decide
which one of my three shoes to wear out today,
but I can decide that my life could easily be given up
to be re-acquired with you in it.

This poem,
had a long time coming.

Sir Charles is an explorer and a writer of it all. Subscribe to his newsletter by clicking here to get weekly updates on his suspicious life.